


Politics and History

by theimmortalliz



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Drinking, F/M, M/M, Marriage, Original Characters - Freeform, Past Relationship(s), Resolved Sexual Tension, Same-Sex Marriage, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 39,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimmortalliz/pseuds/theimmortalliz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A randomized mix of my own and original prompts to form a 30-day 00Q challenge. Follows the development of the relationship between Bond and his Quartermaster over the course of a year.<br/>Including angst, more angst, and an angsty Q backstory.<br/>I guess we could broadly-speaking call this song-fic, since each chapter comes with lyrics which inspired it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 - Holding Hands

Prompt One: Holding Hands

 

_Why d'you feel so underrated?_

_Why d'you feel so negated?_

_(Bloc Party - Banquet)_

 

Q's psych evaluation – which he should not have seen, but perhaps they should have secured it more thoroughly – stated that he was a perfectionist with a near crippling need for order and control. It was what made him, the report stated, and also what could break him: whilst attention to the fine details was crucial when designing explosive pens or navigating a sensitive security system, the hectic MI6 was hardly the place for a man who was prone to the odd panic attack.

 

He had been feeling the tightness in his chest building over the past half an hour. He set his jaw and carried on working, well aware of both the fact that he was manually breathing – deep breath in through the nose, and out through the mouth – and that his hands had gone a deathly shade of pale. It had not been a pleasant morning. There had been an enquiry unceremoniously dumped on his desk first thing that morning, regarding the maiming of an agent in a rappel-gun accident which had been traced back to a particularly incompetent engineer at Q Branch; an ever-growing mound of new projects, all delivered by Moneypenny with express instructions from M not to screw this up as spectacularly as the offending rappel-gun; a constantly-pinging IM client which flooded him with complaints and veiled threats from Litigation and Accounts, and a bumbling workforce he could not help but feel he would work better without. To top it all off, he was in his final hours before James Bloody Bond shipped out on yet another mission under his control. The tech wasn't ready. Of course it wasn't ready, how could it be, with all else he had to deal with?

 

He alt-tabbed to a terminal, silencing the incessant IM program, and connected the GPS tracer he was working on via micro-USB. It took him several attempts as his hands shook uncontrollably, and on the successful try he put down the gadget more violently than was strictly necessary. Q Branch, the easily frightened deer that they were, stopped their working momentarily, before realising that it wasn't a gunshot that they had heard but rather the crisp sound of metal meeting glass. Q shut his eyes and took a deep breath in, slowly letting it trail out from between his lips as he turned to his computer screen. The GPS was anything any semi-trained monkey could have handled, but with the growing number of idiots at his command it had been left to him to sort out the final compilation errors. He attempted to upload the code. _Segmentation Fault._ He bit back a curse and his heart began to race, feeling like it might beat itself free of his ribcage.

 

The doors to Q Branch slid open with nothing but the faint hiss of the pneumatics, and even without looking up Q knew who it would be. With a tap of his ever-shaking fingers he pulled up the offending code (line two-hundred and fifty three, but he was sure the error would trace back further) and turned to face the man approaching his desk.

 

“Q.” Said Bond, by way of greeting, as he leant intrusively – as he always did – across Q's desk. “You're looking rather more pale than usual.”

 

Q stopped manually breathing. His hands were freezing but his chest felt like it was on fire as his palpitations grew stronger, his breathing growing rapid and catching in his ever-constricting throat. He felt like he could have cried, or been sick, or both, and he wanted very much to leave the room just in case either happened but his legs felt as if they had been replaced with lead. Bond grabbed Q's consulting chair, the chair in which guests often sat should they want to hold a formal meeting with Q within the branch but had long since been placed to the side, and swung it around in front of the desk. He sat down, fixing Q with his ice-cold eyes. Q could do nothing but lower his own and distantly observe how delightfully pathetic this must all look.

 

If he weren't confined to his chair by his leaden legs he might have leapt backwards in surprise. Bond had reached out and taken both of Q's pale and shaking hands in his own. He didn't think he'd ever seen the agent treat anyone with anything but reserved nonchalance, except for Moneypenny whom he seemed to treat with biting if flirtatious insults, but here they were – the great Commander Bond, quietly holding the hands of his Quartermaster as if he were a frightened school child.

 

“Q,” Bond said, quietly, with the kind of delicacy you'd expect from a man diffusing a bomb. “We Double-Ohs are trained in controlling panic.” Q could have laughed – Double-Ohs didn't have emotions, did they? - but he felt like he could barely breathe enough to keep himself conscious. “Close your eyes. I want you to take a deep breath in, then control it as you breathe out. Don't hyperventilate.” Q obliged, taking long, slow, deliberate breaths. Bond seemed to be stroking the back of his hands with his thumbs, but Q was sure he was imagining it. After five or six deep breaths Bond spoke again.

 

“Now, I want you to feel your heart rate coming down. It will do, as you control your breathing.” As if by magic his heart obeyed, or perhaps it was just the placebo effect that made him stop thinking he could feel it pound against his chest wall. Bond let him sit again for a few breaths as his heart rate subsided. “In a minute, I'm going to ask you to open your eyes.” Q's heart gave a momentary flutter and he thought he might be slipping back into the attack, but it was almost a pleasant flutter at the thought of Bond giving him such an intimate instruction. “When you do,” Bond continued “Know that there is nothing that isn't fixable.” With that last piece of assurance Q's stomach finished untying itself and he was able to stop fighting against his breathing.

 

Bond let go of his hands simultaneously to telling him to open his eyes. When Q did he found Bond sat back in the consulting chair, with no trace of the satisfied smirk or white knight charm he might expect from a Double-Oh who just rescued his Quartermaster. Instead Bond's face was all business, as if nothing had happened.

 

“My flight doesn't leave for another two hours.” He said, standing up and adjusting the jacket of his suit. “I trust you will have the tech ready by then?”

 

“Certainly, 007.” 


	2. 2 - Cuddling Somewhere

Prompt Two: Cuddling Somewhere

 

_'Cause there's this switch that gets hit,_

_And it all stops making sense,_

_In the middle of drinks..._

_(Bright Eyes – Hit The Switch)_

 

Q had cracked the code for roof access to the new MI6 building within two weeks of the Secret Service moving in. Only site maintenance were supposed to have the code, as the roof hadn't been officially cleared as safe – structurally or otherwise – for staff members to be roaming about on, but he supposed what site maintenance didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

 

He liked to go up there late at night, long after Q Branch had cleared of the programmers, electrical and mechanical engineers that lived there until seven o'clock in the evening. What was home time for them was the time Q was just starting to feel naturally awake, and as much as Q loved his new offices – Q Branch had a floor entirely for their own devices – when the ventilation systems shut off at nine nothing could beat a trip to the roof. His laptop and spare battery were charged enough for him to work comfortably for five hours, and he had a Thermos of tea to keep himself fuelled. He tapped in the code for the door marked 'Roof Access – No Unauthorised Personnel Beyond This Point' and heard the faint electronic click of the lock as the code was accepted. He walked through into a small corridor and steeled himself for the short ladder climb to the roof proper. It was his least favourite part of the journey, having fallen rather unceremoniously on his first attempt to scale it, but at least he was now able to get up there without spraining an ankle.

 

He froze as he stood up on the roof proper, the cool night air that hit his face bringing with it the touch of misty rain the weather forecast had promised. The rain did not concern him right now; there was someone else on the rooftop. They were sat by the edge, legs over the side of the towering building and their arms hooked around the safety rail so they wouldn't fall. There was something in the person's hand. Q wet his lips and stepped forwards gingerly, as even from this distance it was clear that the other person on the roof was far larger and stronger than he could hope to be, and he had no idea what kind of weapon they might hold in their hand. Q took another near-silent step forwards, hastily wiping the cold spray of rain from his glasses as the ever-calculating rational part of his mind thanked the gods his laptop bag was waterproof.

 

It was not a weapon in the person's hand at all. It was a bottle, instantly recognisable by its square shape as one of the more popular brands of bourbon, and it was at least half empty from the way the street lights glistened in the liquor. The man took another pull from the bottle, and Q instantly recognised the silhouette cut by the man's profile in the harsh orange glow.

 

“Bond?” Q chanced, taking another step. Bond didn't turn, didn't even jump – although it was entirely plausible he had already heard Q's careful footsteps on their approach – he just kept his eyes fixed on the London skyline.

 

“I thought only I knew the code for that door.”

 

“How very presumptuous of you.” Q was now standing next to Bond, zipping his anorak closed against the chill and the rain in the air. “Of course you should have known better, because you know me.” Bond did nothing but smirk, again lifting the bottle to his lips. “What are you doing up here at this hour?”

 

“What does it look like I'm doing?” Bond half-offered the bottle by way of explanation. “There's nowhere quiet to drink in this city.”

 

Q sat himself next to Bond, threading his legs under the guard-rail designed to stop people from doing such idiotic things. His stomach gave a lurch as he made the mistake of looking over the edge. He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of alcohol as he did so, and like Bond fixed his eyes on the city's skyline to stop himself looking down again. “It seems like you've been doing a fair amount of that this evening.” Bond took another mouthful of bourbon in reply. “This isn't how I imagined Double-Oh agents must spend their leave, I must admit.”

 

“There's probably more that you don't know than you think.” Bond was barely slurring his words. Q chanced moving his head to get a proper look at the agent next to him. The alcohol had touched his cheeks, turning them slightly pink, but that might just have been from the bite in the wind. He seemed otherwise unaffected.

 

“A wise man will always know that he doesn't know things. And I didn't know one could drink quite so much whisky without being physically ill.” Bond turned his smirk towards him, his eyes flicking over Q in a way that made him quite uncomfortable.

 

“You're one to talk.” Bond turned his gaze back to the city. The bottle was almost three quarters empty. “You've practically gone green.”

 

“I don't like heights.” Q said curtly, frightened that if he moved his head to stop facing Bond he might accidentally look over the edge again.

 

“Then why did you choose to join me at the edge?”

 

“Because if the great James Bloody Bond drank himself to death on my watch, I'd never hear the end of it.” Bond laughed a little bit, as they both knew Q was probably right. He switched his bottle to his other hand, and Q had a sudden dizzying vision of it falling to the floor – just as he might, if he let his white knuckles let go of the railing – and then he had a vision of the railing breaking off in his hands. The roof hadn't been cleared as safe, after all.

 

Bond wrapped his now free hand around Q's waist, sliding him along the side of the roof such that Q gave a slight gasp of panic and closed his eyes tight. Bond smirked at him. “I'm not going to drop you. I've done this before.”

 

“I don't want to hear of it.” Q was shaking. He heard the clink of Bond's bottle on the concrete beside him, then felt Bond's hand covering one of his own. The only part of his brain that wasn't consumed by the fear of falling noted that Bond was probably only being this over-affectionate because of the three-quarters-of-a-bottle of bourbon currently ruining his liver.

 

“It's okay, you can let go.” Q felt Bond's breath against his ear as the soft, authoritative tones reached him. He could feel himself slightly shaking his head, but before he could formally protest Bond had coaxed his fingers free of the railing and had helped them find Bond's waist. Q let his arm be laced around Bond before he gathered handfuls of the man's jacket in his shaking hand. “And the other one.” Bond prompted, his voice still painfully close to Q's ear.

 

Q took a deep breath and let go of the railing, throwing his arm across Bond to grab onto his shoulder. He buried his face in Bond's neck, still unable to open his eyes, but he felt exhilarated.

 

“Christ,” He managed, his voice still a little shrill with fear as he clung to Bond for dear life. “I am never coming up here again.”

 

“Once you've faced your fears once, it will be easier the next time.” Q could feel the very edge of Bond's mouth moving against his forehead has he spoke, and now his heart was racing for reasons entirely unrelated to fear. He was not quite willing to relax his grip on Bond, but he turned his face so it rested on Bond's shoulder. The bridge of his nose burnt from where his glasses had been digging into him, and there was a faint imprint in Bond's neck of their outline. Bond cupped Q's chin with his free hand and tilted his face upwards. He kissed him, gently, with whisky-stained lips. “See, Quartermaster? It's easy.”

 

Q let himself be kissed, at first, before moving his head away as much as he could with his hands still firmly gripping Bond. “I can't do this. You're drunk.”

 

“And you can't let go of me.” He ran a strong, capable hand down Q's neck, pulling him closer. Q could feel the stubble forming on his chin and the whisky on his breath as Bond kissed him, teasing his mouth open with the tip of that oh so agile tongue. Q couldn't help but gasp a little – he couldn't remember the last time he had been kissed like this, or if he had ever been kissed like this – as Bond's talented if brusque fingertips dug into his hip.

 

“Wait, stop.” He eventually managed to mutter against Bond's warm and inviting lips. The more animalistic parts of his being told him to disregard his own advice, but he managed to look up at Bond. Their noses were just touching. “This is a roof-top. You are an agent not only under my command but under my care. And even with your tolerance, you are still drunk. I'm sorry, Double-Oh-Seven, but this is not how it happens. Not for me.” For what seemed like an eternity Bond considered him, with Lord only knows what going on behind those inscrutable clear blue eyes.

 

The hand that had been previously holding his head steady ran its fingers through his hair, guiding his head towards Bond's shoulder. Q sighed, almost content, licking the last of the taste of Bond and the alcoholic sting off of his lips. He had relaxed his grip by a little bit but was still holding onto Bond tightly, and Bond kept an arm encircling his waist to protect him from falling. There was no need for him to leave after turning the agent down, that was clear, and Q did not know for how long they sat holding each other, protecting each other against the chill in the night air.

 

*

 

Q woke up at his desk, slumped in his chair, in the early hours of the morning. He was wearing his coat, still damp from the rain, and his laptop bag had spilt its contents at his feet. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses and instinctively flattened his hair. He could still get a few hours' sleep in at home, if he was quick. As he stood to leave he noticed a distinctive square bottle on his desk, with the last quarter still full of honey-brown liquor. He could feel a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth as he locked it away in the bottom drawer of his desk.  


	3. 3 - The Competition

Prompt Three: The Competition

 

_I'm so much older than I can take,_

_And my affection? Well, it comes and goes..._

_(The Killers – All These Things That I Have Done)_

 

Q had had far too much time to reflect upon the indiscretions which took place on the rooftop. The distraction that he knew Bond would prove to become had been temporarily removed from him the very next day and, whilst he couldn't say he was entirely displeased, he was a touch suspicious. His 007, the infamous Commander James Bond, had been transferred to the care of a junior handler. It was not an unusual practice - it only made sense to train the inexperienced handlers with those agents who would not be entirely dependent on them - but it had happened with conspicuous speed. He wondered whether maintenance actually had got around to finishing the CCTV coverage of the roof. 

It did not help his concerns to discover that the girl – for that was all she was, she could hardly any be older than him – was exceptionally pretty. She had naturally platinum hair, cut and styled into a cheeky tousled bob, and on their first meeting had worn a pencil skirt so tight Q's mind could not help but wonder why he couldn't see the lines of her underwear (unless she wasn't wearing any, heaven forbid – he had to stop himself blushing like a schoolboy at that thought). 

It had been his job to brief her on the erratic and volatile history of Double-Oh-Seven. He included everything, from Bond's poor relationship with authority to his tendency to disappear when things didn't go his way. Naturally, he left out the kiss he had given him and the brusque, rough hand Q could still feel holding the back of his neck. 

He had closed the folder, after going over all the major points, and handed it to her across the table. She looked nowhere near as concerned or, indeed, frightened as someone in her position. He had heard stories of handlers quitting after just one round with Double-Oh-Seven, and she was but a junior. She was just smiling, confidently and a touch conceitedly if he was honest, and commenting about how the Great James Bond seemed to be a bit of a handful. Q was sure he saw a glimmer in her eye. 

His introduction of Bond to the agent had gone as smoothly as it could have done – just as handlers had left because of James Bond, James Bond had refused a handler or two on nothing but the first glance – but that made Q feel no better. Bond shook her hand and kissed her on the cheek, in a rare show of European affection from the Double-Oh, with a look in his eye which could almost qualify for 'predatory'. 

“I didn't think MI6 was capable of finding such talent.” He said, after she had reeled off her experience and qualifications. Q's stomach gave an awful twinge. _I bet you say that to all your handlers_. 

*

Whilst Bond was under the care of the dangerously inexperienced (he did feel a touch sorry for her, despite everything, as Bond would prove to be nothing if not a baptism of fire) he had been given another Double-Oh to coordinate. It was a basic retrieval mission, nothing that required any thought and practically a day off compared to handling Bond, which left his mind a lot of time to wander. He wasn't jealous, that he was sure of. He knew Bond well, as an intimacy forms quickly between an agent and their handler, but even from his file he could learn that the man was a serial heart-breaker. It was irrational to be jealous because he had no reason to believe that their little coming together on the rooftop was anything special. After all, Bond getting drunk and escorting people home was as predictable as the tide.

Yet the comparison in position between himself and Bond's new handler was a touch too similar for comfort. He had even kissed her, too, and without needing to be drunk. Yes, it had just been on the cheek, and yes, he hadn't been allowing her to hold him as tightly as Q had done, but it still caused his stomach to curl in on itself and his mood to turn melancholy. He took a fortifying sip from the cup of smoky oolong tea on his desk and composed himself. 

Double-Oh-Four looked a lot like a beat-nik, if beat-niks were built like rugby players and moved with the incongruous grace of a ballet dancer. He had a goatee, a pony-tail which ever other Double-Ohs constantly berated him about, and a laid-back professionalism which could turn into a hissy-fit with alarming speed. He watched the man move across the CCTV feed in front of him, his footsteps just audible over the line. 

 

"Next right, 004, redirecting the camera now." With a few keystrokes the next camera 004 was to pass stopped sending its footage to the security desk of the building it lived in and instead sent it to his screen at Q Branch, just as his agent walked into the frame. 

 

"The door is at the end of this hallway. Watch for the tripwires." 

 

"Understood." Said the voice on the other end of the line, the sound crackling slightly after being transmitted such a distance. Q watched with some interest as the agent produced a spray from his pocket, developed by Q Branch a while back but which had encountered a lot of development problems, and sprayed it all over the door as if he were trying to graffiti it. The trip wires became instantly visible, and 004 was able to slide a hand through the wires to try the door. Remarkably, it was unlocked. “Now what do we do?” He asked, as Q watched him stand back and look into the room as the tripwires began to disappear again. 

 

“You had to ask?” Q smirked as he tapped out a few lines and sent them off to the building's security system. He heard the beep of the tripwires being disabled through the headset. “Move quickly, they might be timed.” His agent crossed into the room. There was no camera, so Q waited for him to speak.

 

“There's a safe in here.” There was an edge of hardness in the man's voice.

 

“You're a Double-Oh, aren't you, Double-Oh-Four? Crack it.” Q frowned. This was an information and document reconnaissance mission, so the agent should hardly be surprised by a safe. Across from him he heard the doors of Q Branch give their distinctive pneumatic hiss as they slid open. He glanced up, seriously considering getting a 'Do Not Disturb' sign for his desk, before temporarily feeling his heart stop. 

 

“It's an electronic safe. So unless you fancy talking me through it, that is going to be just a little bit difficult.” Q only half heard what his Double-Oh was saying to him. Either the trainee handler had completed the mission in record time, or Bond had been yet again relieved of duty for indiscretions, or he had managed to cause the girl some sort of stress-related illness – it hardly mattered the reason, Q decided, because the man he shouldn't be seeing had just walked into his office.

 

"Q," Bond said, quietly, leaning over the desk and casting both a literal and figurative shadow over Q. "Might I have a word?"

 

Q's hardened eyes lifted from the CCTV feed filling his screen. He pursed his lips as he tried to stare down the man who had trapped him in his seat with his presence, and the strong arms braced against the desk, as a cat might trap a mouse. 

 

"Q? Do you copy?" The voice in his ear was impatient, almost hostile. 

 

"...Stand by, 004." There was the sound of the warning given when one party closed communications, and he slipped his headset around his neck so he didn't have to hear 004's stream of profanities. "Your timing," he looked to Bond, being able to afford little patience for the man "Is unappreciated." He gestured redundantly to the microphone on his headset. "As always." It was hardly the time and he was certainly not in the mood to be playing Bond's head games. 

 

"As much as it would be convenient for us both to bury our heads in the sand, we need to discuss -"

 

"Discuss what, Double-Oh-Seven?" Q snapped, his voice like venom. 

 

Bond showed no reaction past the slight narrowing of his eyes. He didn't move from his position over the desk; if anything he seemed more entrenched. 

 

"Well then perhaps we need not discuss it." The smirk which touched the corner if his mouth only served to prove Q's suspicions correct. That had been challenge he had heard in the man's voice, not defeat. 

 

"Well, then." Q said curtly, attempting to stop his throat constricting. "What is it you suggest?"

 

The smirk now more evident, Bond pulled an appointment card from his breast pocket and slid it across the desk. Its meaning implicit, Q quickly covered it with his palm as Bond straightened up. 

 

"You should get back to him," Bond said, conversationally, pointing to the forgotten headset hanging around Q's neck. "He gets stroppy if you don't pay him enough attention." 

 

Q tapped distractedly at his keyboard, trying his hardest to focus as Bond watched him. Two-way communication restored, he replaced his headset. 

 

"Apologies 004." He swallowed hard as he watched Bond leave, wishing his nerves would steady. He quickly pulled up the photograph 004 had sent him of the safe and, immediately recognising its type and weaknesses, sent him what he would need. "Transmitting the decrypter now."

 

*

 

Q was involved in an incredibly heated argument with himself all the way up to the fifth floor. He wasn't sure why he was following the instructions on the card Bond had given him. When a man hands you a card requesting your presence in the fifth floor gents' toilets the last thing you do is comply, especially when you know that those specific toilets are closed for cleaning at the specified time. Yet, the minute he had got 004 back inside the walls of the MI6 safe-house he had shut down his equipment and had run up the stairs like a good little lap-dog. The logical, rational Q was trying to force him into the nearest lift, or make him fall down the stairs, anything to avoid this meeting. His curiosity, to say nothing of his libido, were willing his legs forwards. They were easily winning. 

 

He stood outside the door to catch his breath. As he expected, there was a sign stuck to the door stating that these facilities were locked for cleaning and would employees please direct themselves to either the sixth or fourth floors instead. Q tried the door. It was most certainly not locked, and when he stepped inside the cleaner was nowhere in sight. 

 

“Bond?” His voice echoed strangely off the pristine white tiles. All too late he caught a glimpse of the man moving towards him in the mirrors above the sinks. Bond was upon him in seconds, using everything he'd learnt about restraining enemies in close situations to force Q against the wall; he had Q's shoulders pinned with one forearm, more than enough to hold the smaller man, whilst his other hand tipped Q's chin upwards. 

 

Q's shoulder blades ached from the force of being thrown into the tile, but he could hardly feel it. Adrenaline surged through his body, making his heart race and his eyes wide, as he looked up at he man holding him there. The Bond from the rooftop had been sad, almost sweet, but this man was someone new, something new. This was the man who had left a trail of broken hearts and broken necks that spanned the globe. He had wanted the Bond on the rooftop to hold him, to love him, to listen when he said 'stop'. He would let this Bond do anything he liked to him, and it seemed like this Bond was about to do just that. The tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips as he parted them, enticingly, wishing that this new Bond would just make his move. 

 

And when he did, it was incredible – Bond's mouth was hot, hungry as he kissed Q roughly, without regard. He bit at the soft insides of Q's lips, drawing blood, and Q let out a choked cry as the wires inside his brain crossed, confusing pleasure and pain. This Bond did not tease with his tongue. He forced Q's jaw open and he kissed him deeply. 

 

Bond pushed Q's chin up further, forcing his head back and revealing the soft, pale flesh of his neck. Q moaned as Bond kissed his neck, testing the waters, then had to choke back a cry – as much of pure brilliant pain as anything good – as Bond bit into the skin just above his collar. He bit him again and Q was sure he had drawn blood that time; the man was vicious, an animal, and if Q could have said anything at all he would have only encouraged him to go further. 

 

Bond's free hand relinquished Q's face and traced down his front, finding his belt buckle with ease. His agile fingers slipped it open, then undid the button on Q's chinos. Teasingly, frustratingly, the hand snaked around his waist and down his back. The hand, worn from years of service but all the more skilled for it, found a silken buttock. Q gasped into the fresh kiss Bond was placing on his lips as that hand squeezed harshly. 

 

He could feel Bond smirk briefly against his neck, before he bit him again on its other side. In tandem, providing so much sensation that he thought he would have to scream 'stop' and pray that Bond listened, the hand moved around the slight curve of his hips towards his already half-hard cock. James Bond's fingertips brushed him as he bit down again into that delicate neck, and Q had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out. 

 

The final bite came with more than a brush – Bond wrapped his strong and capable hand around Q's cock and gave him one sharp, demanding stroke. Q's hands were desperately fighting for purchase against the smooth white tiles and he was certain he couldn't get through any more of this treatment without screaming.

 

Then, everything slowed. Bond gently pulled his hand out of Q's trousers and placed one, last, almost apologetic, kiss on his neck before relinquishing his hold. Q slumped forwards, his hands on bent knees, his back aching and his cock throbbing. He hadn't realised how breathless he had become, just how much he had been hurt. He looked up at Bond, who was wiping a trace of blood from his lips, before managing to speak. 

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“You're not the only one that can say 'stop', Quartermaster.” Bond smiled at him, and perhaps that was pity in his eyes but mostly it was the self-righteousness of revenge. Bond allowed himself a few seconds to savour the state he had got Q into, before leaving as if nothing had happened at all. 

 

“Fuck!” Q shouted, clapping his hand over his mouth as his own voice rebounded around him. His knees finally gave out and he slumped on the floor.


	4. 4 - Unsure if Unrequited

Prompt Four: Unsure If Unrequited

 

_While you're having your fun,_

_As the damage is done,_

_I'm assessing the cost_

_(Depeche Mode – Martyr)_

 

Bond finished his fifth double whiskey in three quick mouthfuls. He was sat on a stool that was probably older than he was, hunched over the bar of a run-down pub in Brixton which seemed to be staying in business by sheer determination alone. It was traditional, in that the building was made of pitted dark wood which cast every corner into shadow and every surface, including the carpet, was ever so slightly sticky. He was one of only three patrons, the other two being two old men conversing crassly over one of the corner tables. Bond almost felt like an intruder – this had probably been their local for longer than he had been alive – but it was becoming ever harder to escape the screaming throng that was London. He pushed the empty glass away and caught the landlord's eye.

 

“Another.”

 

“Do you think that's wise, sir?” The man was in his sixties, haggard by his rough life as a working man. He was observing Bond with genuine concern in his eyes as he polished a glass with a clean but frayed rag.

 

“It's been a trying week.”

 

“Alright then, sir.” The landlord gave him another pitying look before turning his back on Bond. Bond watched as he fished a low-ball glass out from under the counter and poured two measures of Bell's into it. He turned back and slid it across the bar to Bond. “But that's the last one I can serve you.”

 

*

 

Q could lose himself in work easily. It had become one of his primary coping mechanisms over the years. If there was a problem that he could find that was so difficult he could let is occupy the entirety of his mind, there were no resources spare for him to worry about paying his bills, or contracting anthrax from walking past the biological warfare research labs, or what he was going to do about the Double-Oh he was rapidly becoming entangled with.

 

He sat in the middle of his quite unnecessary double bed, his laptop in front of him and surrounded by papers. He found algorithm optimisation to be an almost relaxing, meditative task, as he could find solace in the ever decreasing complexity and the associated decreasing runtime. The algorithm itself had been developed by the cryptography team at Q Branch as an industrial-strength piece of cracking software, but its exponential complexity made it impossible to use in the field (although they had celebrated successes with using it remotely). He had offered to work on the optimisation, much to the surprise of the crypto team, to keep himself busy during his long nights alone.

 

He stared at the source code, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed tightly together. If anything, his efforts were only making the algorithm slower. He was off his game, not thinking straight, and he knew exactly who he could blame that on. He took off his glasses and placed them next to the laptop, the world slipping out of focus as he did so. He put his hands over his face and let his mind wander in the darkness. There was only one way to solve problems, and that was by solving them. And James Bond was certainly a problem.

 

*

 

The landlord had not been bluffing. He had not thrown Bond out after he had finished his sixth double, but he had refused to serve him any more and, in Bond's mind, that was the same thing. The landlord had also taken it upon himself to act as Bond's shrink, asking him what exactly he was looking for at the bottom of his glass, and Bond could not have spoken about it even if he was in any way compelled to do so.

 

He had walked to his flat, the cold night air like a slap to the face which served to unpleasantly sober him up. He stopped by the off-licence five minutes from his flat and bought the largest bottle of Glenfiddich they had as well as two packs of twenty Marlboro Golds. MI6 had taken to tutting like a disapproving mother at agents who smoked, in line with government health policy, so it had been easier for Bond to give up – save for cigars at functions and whenever someone offered – but this was an emergency. He was on his third by the time he was unlocking the door to his flat.

 

He switched on the lights and his eyes were immediately drawn to his coffee table, where there was still a half-full bottle of gin from the night before. He put the carrier bag, containing the whiskey and cigarettes, next to it before sitting heavily on his sofa. He picked up the bottle of gin and sat back. He didn't know what he was doing. If there ever where universally agreed upon rules that were smart to live by, then the first would undoubtedly be “don't mix business with pleasure”. Casual encounters with strangers he picked up at bars were pure pleasure, with no expectation of any return, and the less-than-simple relationships he was part of on assignments were there purely as a business tool, a way to gain trust or extract information. What he was doing now was neither of those things. Q had said it himself – Bond was an agent under his command and his care. And that made everything just that little bit more complicated. He took a pull from the gin bottle and asked his ceiling what the fuck he thought he was doing. The ceiling was quiet, white, and offered no answers.

 

*

 

There had to be a solution. There had to be a way of getting out of this with his career, and himself, intact. Q had been sitting with his head in his hands for so long that the pressure of the heels of his palms on his cheekbones was becoming painful. He sat up straight and opened his eyes, stretching his arms so far back that he felt something in his shoulder-blades pop. He put his glasses back on. The laptop had long since gone to sleep, the blinking of its power light almost lonely. He closed the screen and lay back on his bed, crumpling the papers that had been behind him.

 

There was something wrong about the entirety of the situation. He knew that continuing his involvement with 007 was beyond irrational – if anyone were to find out then the entirety of his promising career at MI6 was at stake, and that was if their entanglement didn't result in something even more disastrous happening to one of them. There were strict rules against employee dating for a reason, after all.

 

But was this dating? No, it wasn't – nor was it a relationship, or a courtship, or a romance, or even an infatuation. He knew Bond as he knew all Double-Ohs, and any form of emotional attachment was beaten out of them before they were allowed anywhere near that title. Of course, he also knew that Bond was the exception to all the rules, especially that one – Ms Lynd had been enough to prove that, even if she had been the only incident – but he was sure that, this time, Bond would know better. He also liked to think that he knew himself, and as he lay staring at the ceiling of his bedroom he was absolutely sure that he wasn't in love. He wasn't even infatuated.

 

Then what was the problem he was having? The obvious solution was also the right one: just say 'stop'. It was sensible, they would both see that, and things needn't go any further, they needn't get out of hand. It was rational, and Q was nothing if not a rational being, and if that was the case why did his stomach form a tight knot at the thought of telling Bond that this would go no further?

 

*

 

Bond threw another expired cigarette into his makeshift ashtray, the coffee cup from that morning's breakfast, and glanced at his phone on the table. That made four calls he had failed to take since arriving back at his flat. The gin bottle was nearly three-quarters empty and one finished pack of twenty lay crumpled next to his phone. If he didn't answer the next time then he was sure to be declared legally dead, again, so when it rang again twenty minutes later he picked it up.

 

“Bond.” He managed to croak, his lungs protesting at the tar he had filled them with.

 

“Oh, so you can still be found at this number.” Moneypenny's snide but light demeanour made him want to hang up the phone, as he had no desire to trade wits with anyone. “I thought perhaps you'd thrown your phone in the Thames.”

 

“Do you never sleep?” He looked at his watch as he asked. It had gone two in the morning.

 

“You should be so lucky.” He could hear the smirk on her lips. “New assignment has just come in. You've been drafted in to track the local branch of the terrorist cell 004 has been stalking.” He had been praying a mission would come in, but to fix his problems he needed it to be as far away from London as possible. He sighed heavily, enough to be audible over the line, and took another mouthful of gin. “Don't be like that. It'll be good for you to do something rather than just moping around, even if it's not up to your usual standards of excitement. If you remember this conversation in the morning, then a full formal briefing will take place at 0900 hours in the usual place.”

 

“Great, thanks.” He said, not meaning it in the slightest and not caring if she knew that.

 

“Alright, then.” There was a moment of silence, long enough to cause Bond to wonder if she knew something damaging and was trying to diplomatically phrase it. “If you see Q,” she said, after what seemed like an age, “Can you let him know? He's even worse than you for not being found when he doesn't want to be.” Bond thought about asking why he should be any more capable of getting hold of the Quartermaster, and about telling her that perhaps assigning field-work to Q where Double-Oh-Seven was involved was not the best idea, but years of training and his own stubbornness kept him silent on those matters.

 

“If I see him, I'll let him know.” He entertained no intention of tracking the Quartermaster down, although he was duty-bound to mention it if he just happened across him in the corridors. Moneypenny said her sarcastic goodbyes and hung up, leaving a sobered Bond to calculate his next move. 


	5. 5 - On A Date

Prompt Five: On A Date

 

_When the storm arrives would you be seen with me,_

_By the merciless eyes of deceit?_

_(Chris Cornell – You Know My Name)_

 

Bond did not stop by Q Branch on his way to the briefing, neither did he see Q in the corridors. He noticed that people were moving around him, like he were a knife cutting through a crowd made of butter, as the ever-crowded MI6 corridors cleared for him. There was nothing for him to be pleased about, and it must have showed.

 

He said very little during the briefing, accepting the task and the associated dossiers with little more than formal consent. When asked if he knew where Q had got to, he merely shrugged his shoulders and said that it was none of his concern. M grew snappy with his difficult attitude and ordered him to find his Quartermaster and brief him himself, before dismissing him sharply from the room.

 

Bond phrased and rephrased what he was going to say to Q more times than he could count on his way to Q Branch. Theirs had become a rather strange arrangement – it was both extremely delicate and incredibly blunt, which made planning the best course through any given conversation non-trivial. He flicked through the papers in the manilla envelope that had been thrust upon him during the briefing: field-work summons, rap sheets, and dinner reservations for two. The Service had really gone downhill since their age-old headquarters had been blown to pieces, if one Double-Oh couldn't be trusted to covertly record a conversation, but he doubted he would get far if he decided to protest.

 

The suspects had good taste, at any rate; Bond recognised the restaurant as being a modern and upmarket establishment well-known for their seafood and cocktails, which he had been meaning to investigate during his mandated leave, and he would have the pleasures of good company whilst he was there. The practical part of the assignment would require minimal effort – set the device to record and transmit then make sure everything goes smoothly – so it could be what he and Q both needed but had been desperately avoiding. They had done very little talking, and the situation was getting out of hand.

 

*

 

Q gave him a quizzical look, unsure if he had understood. "Are you asking me on a date, Double-Oh-Seven?"

  
  


"I think, Quartermaster," He spoke slowly, painfully deliberately "That's exactly what I'm doing." 

  
  


Q sat staring at the dinner reservations – eight o'clock that evening – for a long time. He felt like he was trapped inside a teenage girl's dream, with Bond playing the hero, if the girl in question enjoyed knifing herself in the stomach just when things might be going smoothly. There had been a hundred and one ways for this mission to play out. Sending both of them out in the field was unnecessary, anyway, as information retrieval required very little manpower. It was even technologically simple, even with Bond's nostalgia for doing things the old fashioned way - pair the phones, switch on the handset's microphone from the comfort of the restaurant's bar, and record the conversation. There was no reason a fully-trained Double-Oh couldn't handle it themselves. For that matter, there was no reason Q couldn't have done it given a bit of legal leeway and a wi-fi connection. Yet, the powers that be had insisted on sending them both. Q sighed as he pulled the manilla envelope towards him, a tight knot of unpleasant nerves forming in the pit of his stomach no matter how much he tried to dispel them.

  
  


*

  
  


The day seemed to vanish before his eyes. Before he knew it it was six-thirty, and he was leaving Q-Branch before even the least motivated employee had begun to pack away their set-squares. The knots in his stomach had only worsened, and the palms of his hands were beginning to feel clammy. Q did not do nervous graciously – he had never perfected his poker-face and had never really needed to, as almost all conversations he was involved in could be navigated using is natural sarcastic and slightly conceited nature. He was still feeling a lot like a teenage girl, with his nerves a flutter over a date with a gentleman, and all the more ridiculous for it. By half seven he was in a suit and a taxi, desperately trying to make the back of his hair lie flat. 

  
  


The taxi pulled up at the curb of the restaurant at precisely eight. Bond was leaning against its outside wall, wearing a sharp-cut grey suit and an easy elegance surprising for a man of his impressive musculature. He stood up straight as Q shut the car door before walking towards him, a slight smile touching his lips as he watched the young man reflexively straighten his jacket and check over his shoulder. 

  
  


“Q.”

  
  


“Double-Oh-Seven.” Q purred, matching the agent's tone. Bond offered him an arm like a dutiful prom date, as well as a cocksure smile, with which to escort him into the establishment. “If we're going to play it like that, you should have brought me flowers.” 

  
  


“My apologies, Q, I'm out of practice.” Bond pulled the glass door open. A waitress seemed to recognise them the minute they walked in and ushered them towards a table for two, close to a table where two men were conversing in jovial Russian. The waitress gave them a long look, just in case they hadn't picked up on it, before asking them for drinks. This was Bond's domain, so Q let him talk. “Two Stingers, on the rocks, with crushed mint leaves. Crush the mint leaves under the ice, then drizzle grenadine so it drips through before you pour the cocktail in – and make sure it's shaken. Got it?” 

  
  


“Got it, sir.” Said the waitress, quickly reviewing her hurriedly scribbled notes before scurrying off to the bar. 

  
  


“Grenadine in a Stinger is a little bit unusual, isn't it?” Q said, perusing the menus the waitress had placed in front of them so he wouldn't have to meet Bond's eye. 

  
  


“It was something a friend of mine introduced me to.” The 'friend' in question had been Felix Leiter, but it would be incredibly bad form to mention his name at a time like this. “I think you'll find it enjoyable.” 

  
  


Whilst they were waiting for the waitress to return with the customized cocktails, they performed the one piece of work they had been instructed to. The third member of the Russian party was not due to arrive for another twenty minutes, but it was always good practice to set up the equipment early so that any kinks could be ironed out. Q intended for there to be no kinks – he had a reputation as the youngest and brightest to ever hold the designation to protect – and things went exactly to plan. Bond forced the connection between the phones, turned on the microphone of the handset belonging to the loudest Russian gentleman, and set his own phone to both record and transmit the conversation. Q received confirmation moments later that everything was working perfectly. By the time their drinks arrived, the evening was theirs. They clinked their glasses. 

  
  


“You were right,” Q said, after his first sip of the modified Stinger “This cocktail isn't completely awful.” Bond gave him an amused half-smile over his glass.

  
  


“I must be a man of some taste.” 

  
  


For a while they sat in heavy silence, Q checking the tablet in his pocket every few minutes to make sure the connection was still strong. The third Russian had made an appearance, and although Q's Russian was rudimentary at best he could still pick up the shift in tone and the odd word which made it clear that they were no longer discussing matters that were entirely legal. Bond was half-watching them, glancing casually over at their table every now and then, but it was obvious that he was listening intently – Bond's ability to speak Russian originally made him very attractive to an MI6 which seemed to be stuck in the Cold War. The waitress brought over a platter of king prawns with a sweet chilli and ginger dressing, and winked at Bond as she lent over the table. Q watched her leave, unable to keep his eyes from narrowing in distaste.

  
  


“You don't have to worry about her.” Bond followed Q's gaze to the waitress, who was now leaning over the bar to speak to the bartender. “Hardly my type.” 

  
  


“I thought everyone was your type.” Q said, shortly. Bond fixed Q with clear blue eyes, which sparked with a tantalizing and exciting antagonism. 

  
  


“I have more than enough to keep me interested right here.” 

  
  


The colour rushed to Q's cheeks, despite his futile attempt to stop it. “You do try hard to charm, don't you?” Bond did nothing but smirk infuriatingly at him.

  
  


“It's working, isn't it?” It was working far more than Q could ever comfortably admit. Instead, he took a fortifying sip of Stinger. 

  
  


“What are we doing here, Bond?” It was a question that encompassed every possible comment that could have passed between them, in all the feeble attempts they could have made to rationalise and quantify their relationship. Q could feel his shoulders sag slightly with the sheer effort of asking it. 

  
  


“Must we classify it in order to enjoy it?” Bond's frosted eyes were once more looking over to the covert Russian trio, but he was no longer watching them. To classify it would be to make it real, and it was something neither of them should be, much less needed to be, involved in. Q caught a shadow of something – was it anxiety, fear? - pass over Bond's features. 

  
  


“I fear we must, before things get out of hand. And our last attempts to discuss this were... Unsuccessful.” Q put a hand involuntarily to his neck, fingertips brushing where Bond's teeth had left the slightest of scars. 

  
  


“Then what do you suggest?” Bond looked back to Q, blue eyes both sincerely questioning and a touch provocative, despite his smooth tone. The Russians were standing and saying overly-compensatory loud and affectionate good-byes. 

  
  


“You tell me what to suggest, Double-Oh-Seven.” Q hissed, the anger that underpinned all of his confusion and desire surfacing without his wish for it to. “This is what you do to people, I'd expect you to be the expert.” 

  
  


Both Bond's phone and Q's tablet buzzed in unison. The conversation between the Russians was over, and they were dismissed from duty. Everything had gone according to plan, and MI6 had learnt all they had hoped to. The pair sat in silence for a while, staring at their screens, the interruption serving only to raise tensions between them.

  
  


“I would suggest,” Bond said, in a low voice indicative of an order rather than a suggestion, “That we call a taxi for my place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the books, Bond enjoys drinking Stingers with Felix. It has been suggested that they have not appeared in the films because they are not the 'manliest' of drinks. Naturally, I took this to mean that Bond and Felix started some sort of special relationship over them. 
> 
> Lyrics are, of course, from the Casino Royale title song. But you knew that already.


	6. 6 - Making Out

Prompt Six: Making Out

 

_Why does it feel so good but hurt so bad?_

_My mind keeps saying 'run as fast as you can'_

_(Olly Murs feat. Flo Rida – Troublemaker)_

 

The cab ride was marked only by Bond's possessive hand on Q's knee and the odd instruction passed to the driver. There was a warmth in Q's limbs and a haziness in his usually sharp mind; he wasn't much of a drinker, and the customized Stingers had been stronger than he had been expecting. He felt the heaviness of Bond's hand leave his knee to pay and generously tip the cab driver, and then his own hand was opening his car door. London's cool night air felt pleasant against his face.

 

Bond's apartment was on the top floor of a modern block just outside of South Kensington. They said nothing to each other in the lift, but Bond had put an arm around Q's shoulders and Q had slipped a hand around Bond's waist. When the doors of the lift opened Bond led him through the smart lobby and into the flat proper, locking the door behind them – it was tastefully decorated and minimal, with the only signs of its inhabitance being the laptop and empty mug on the coffee table, and the collection of empty bottles of spirits by the door waiting to be recycled. Q stopped, breaking away from Bond – slipping out of his suit jacket as Bond did his – then, he rest his hands against the back of the sofa. He carefully absorbed every corner of the flat.

 

“It's safe.” Bond said, reading his mind.

 

“Can you be sure that it's not bugged, that we're not being observed?” Q's eyes found nothing out of the ordinary, but his nerves were still tingling. What they were not doing was not exactly above-board.

 

“I've been living here for nearly a year, Q. Do you think that I wouldn't have noticed something?” Bond stood behind his Quartermaster, wrapping one arm around the man's waist and placing one hand over the other's. “Stop worrying.” Bond's breath on his neck made any words in Q's mouth dissolve. Bond placed a kiss on his neck, Q arching his head backwards to rest upon Bond's shoulder. Bond moved his kisses lower, towards Q's collar, the hand around the other man's waist trailing down towards his belt.

 

“We shouldn't be doing this.” Q managed to say between catching breaths. The hand against his hip stopped moving, but the hand covering his applied a little bit of pressure.

 

“You know what you have to say.” Bond muttered against his neck, standing still behind him. For a heartbeat Q remained still too, his head resting against Bond and his hands bracing the back of the sofa as his quick mind raced. He could feel the words in his throat – _this is wrong, we shouldn't be doing this_ – but his lips would not move to say them, and his base instincts began to win the fight between his super-rational consciousness and the slow burn in his stomach that seemed to be spreading out from underneath Bond's palm.

 

He slipped free of Bond's arms and turned to face the man behind him, the agent's hands coming to settle on Q's slim hips. Bond was happy to wait as Q placed delicate and unsure fingers on his shoulders, on his neck, entranced by the change in his Quartermaster's features as his front of removed calculation slipped away. Q swallowed slowly, fingertips brushing the nape of Bond's neck as he placed a hesitant kiss on his lips. That was all that was needed.

 

Bond returned the kiss, harder, thumbs pushing against Q's hip-bones hard enough to elicit a gasp. He took his chance and slipped his tongue inside Q's mouth, teasing his jaw open further, the heat of his lips tantalizing, inviting, as his slender fingers worked their way into the knot of Bond's tie. It was loose in seconds, the knot just another simple puzzle for Q's mind, and he let it drop to the floor so he could undo the top buttons of Bond's shirt and slip a hand inside. Bond could feel his skin prickle at the touch and he had Q's slim-line tie loosened in seconds, enough to allow him access to the soft skin below the man's collar. He broke the kiss, taking a moment to catch Q's dark eyes, before pressing his lips against his Quartermaster's neck. Q angled his head away, forehead lost in the curve of Bond's neck, exposing even more of his skin as one hand left his hip to slip open the top button of his shirt. The hand on his hip moved to his belt, unbuckling it with well-practised skill, demanding but not indelicate as his breath caught in his throat and Bond's teeth brushed against his neck. Q moved away, standing up straight so his lips were but millimetres away from Bond's, the kisses again coming unsure and confused as Q's concentration moved to his hands as he fumbled with Bond's belt buckle. Bond let him struggle, patiently, still meeting the kisses but with a smirk on his lips. The minute Q succeeded Bond took him by his half-loosened tie, tilting his chin upwards so he could meet those dark brown eyes.

 

“Follow me.” Bond purred, one hand still loosely holding the tail of Q's tie as he walked away. Q obliged, staying tight by his side, one hand gently resting on the small of Bond's back. Bond's bedroom did not have the show-house quality of the rest of the flat, it being the only room he really inhabited, but it carried the same modern charm as everything else the man touched. They stood at the foot of the bed, noses touching and hurried breaths mingling, as Bond's practised fingers made light work of removing Q's shirt and Q had to steady himself as his fingertips slipped against the silk of Bond's clothes. He slipped the shirt off of Bond's broad, toned shoulders, fingertips brushing scars both old and new as he kissed him again, slowly at first but the strong hand tracing his spine made him shiver and bite Bond's lip. Bond returned in kind, teeth first nipping Q's lower lip before moving to bite heavily into his neck, his shoulder, any part of the man he could reach, forcing a strangled moan from his Quartermaster. He turned Q towards the bed, leaning him backwards until his knees gave in and he fell, putting a hand on either side of his shoulders. Their lips met again, hungry, passionate as they lost the rest of their clothes, the bedsheets twisting and crinkling beneath them.

 

Q managed to lift himself up, using Bond as leverage, to push himself further towards the centre of the bed. Bond was on him again in a second, a hand on his shoulder pushing him down so as to force the breath out of him and cause that sweet tension to form in the pit of his stomach. Bond bit into his neck, hard enough to leave a mark and draw a moan from his lips, as a rough hand stroked the inside of his thigh to coax his legs apart. He found his hands grasping for purchase against the soft bedsheets as Bond lowered himself over Q, the hand that had been holding his shoulder moving to grasp his wrist as their hardened pricks brushed. Bond's breathing grew quick and rough in his ear as he moved his hips, their throbbing cocks already slick with pre-cum, and immediately Q knew what he wanted.

 

*

 

Q sat bolt upright, breathing fast, as the first weak glimmers of morning light fell through the slits in the blinds. This wasn't his house, and this wasn't his bed. His mind filled with all sorts of horrible thoughts as his wide eyes took in an unfamiliar room bathed in the strange morning twilight.

 

Then, with a leaden feeling permeating through his stomach, he began to remember the events of the previous night. This was Bond's bedroom, in Bond's house, and he was in Bond's bed. His panicked breathing slowed but his heart still raced; lines had been crossed, and it had been stupid of him to indulge his childish fantasies and allow it to happen. He cursed, under his breath, as his mind skipped ahead to damage control. He turned to wake the man undoubtedly sleeping next to him.

 

But Bond wasn't there. The sheets had been pulled flat, as if his side of the bed had been made, and the only sign of him ever being there was a folded sheet of paper resting on the smoothed pillow. He reached out for it, the rich and traditional letter-writing paper smooth between his fingers, and unfolded it in his lap.

 

An urgent call from the office, and the door was on the latch so he could show himself out. Bond had never been a man to waste words, but Q might have the right to expect more from him now. He crumpled the note between his hands, slipped out from between the sheets, and started to gather his clothes.  


	7. 7 - Masquerade

Prompt Seven: Masquerade

 

_It hides my true shape,_

_Like Dorian Gray_

_(James Blunt – Tears and Rain)_

 

Days turned into weeks, turned into months. Bond was MIA. Q was pretending that it didn't concern him. And why should it? This was what Bond did, what he had always done – like every Double-Oh, he had a way of dealing with the emotions that had been repressed by years of training, and his way was to disappear. It hadn't been Q's mission to oversee, his attentions had been needed elsewhere at the time, and it had been easier for him not to keep up with the details of the case. When he had heard that Bond was yet again missing, he couldn't help but feel a touch of guilt. Perhaps if he had followed his progress, kept a closer eye on the handler who he had been happy to assume was doing a good job, perhaps he could have seen it coming. Perhaps he could have done something to stop the man from disappearing. But there was always the chance that he was the reason Bond had left.

 

Moneypenny sauntered into Q Branch, her high heels clicking against the polished floor. She wasn't an unusual sight there – the woman seemed to have a finger in just about every pie going – but still his greasy and bespectacled employees turned to observe her as if she were some sort of goddess. She stopped on the other side of the workbench he was leaning over and waited patiently to be greeted. He didn't bother to look up from the diagram in front of him.

 

“What can I do for you?” He asked, with the cool and detached professionalism he had taken to using since Bond had been declared missing. He turned to the index of the well-thumbed electrical engineers' handbook next to him, then flicked to a page near its middle. He made a small correction to the diagram before finally looking up at the woman observing him.

 

“New assignment.” She gave him a smile and placed a dossier on top of his diagram. “More field-work.” Q sighed and picked up the folder, flicking through it.

 

“I took this post for a reason, why do they keep insisting on sending me into the field?” He took a closer look at the briefing sheet at the front of the dossier. There was to be an exchange of information, and possibly a large sum of money, between two separate factions MI6 had been tracking, one of which Q and Bond had been recording on the date which Q assumed had led to Bond's most recent disappearance. Now, the powers that be were sending him, Moneypenny, and Double-Oh-Five to a charity gala to intercept the latest exchange and hopefully cripple the cells' operations. There would be lots of people and the requirement of formal-wear. Q hated it already and he hadn't even arrived yet.

 

“Budget cuts make fools of us all.” Moneypenny said, in answer to his question. “Now are you going to come willingly, or am I going to have to drag you?”

 

*

 

It had been well-concealed from him that the event was to be a masquerade party. At six-thirty a tuxedo and beautifully fashioned, if a touch ridiculous, owl mask had been dropped off at Q Branch, and by five-past nine he had picked out Eve Moneypenny from the crowd of socialites that surrounded him. She was flirting casually with one of the marks – a man in a bear mask - as was her job, and looked beautiful in a sapphire blue dress and peacock mask, the feathers fanning around her face to make her eyes look bright and her cheekbones seem sculpted. He felt Double-Oh-Five brush past him, touching base as it were, and watched him watch Moneypenny as he skulked past in a slim-fitted tux and a raven mask, the black of the feathers matching the hair that skirted his collar. In any other world, Double-Oh-Five might have been attractive; Q snapped his eyes back to Moneypenny and banished all of those thoughts from his mind.

 

Q watched Moneypenny carefully, his shoulders tense as he prayed she made the right moves. The man on the giving end of the hand-over was a notorious womaniser, their research had proved that much within minutes, and Eve had been the only available female agent with enough experience and finesse to pull off something as audacious as plucking the information straight from his jacket pocket. The romantic part of Q had been expecting a briefcase, in the traditional cloak-and-dagger style, but information these days was all digitized – and he should have known that – and the hand-over would concern nothing more than passwords, keys, perhaps a swipe card. The items would barely be enough to fit a standard sized envelope, easy for Moneypenny to slip out of the man's pocket and into her clutch bag.

 

Eve was flying solo, it being all too easy for her mark to catch her wearing an earpiece or a wire, so Double-Oh-Five was there as the muscle – to watch the exits, to keep her safe, and to open fire if necessary. Q had yet to figure out why he was needed, but an extra pair of eyes never went amiss when an agent was blind in the field.

 

“Front and back exits clear, looks like these two came alone.” The ambient buzz of the party picked up by Double-Oh-Five's microphone was broken by his voice. Q had lost sight of him in the crowd, but he guessed that he would be near the back of the ballroom, towards the stairs, if he knew Q was standing near the front entrance. “You still got eyes on Eve?”

 

“Affirmative.” Q said, quietly but clearly, raising his complementary champagne glass to his lips to cover the act of speaking into his wrist-watch. Moneypenny was pawing the man and he was laughing affectionately, already quite drunk, and cupping her waist with his large hand. “She seems to be progressing quickly.”

 

Perhaps sensing the words as he spoke them, Moneypenny planted a firm kiss on the man's mouth before whispering something in his ear. He didn't seem to register the hand that slipped inside his suit jacket, far too distracted by her breath on his neck and the promising hand that cupped the front of his trousers. They broke apart, Eve placing another sweet kiss on the man's lips, before turning away from him. He gave her a roguish slap on the arse as she walked away, and Double-Oh-Five snorted something crude into Q's ear, which he chose to ignore. Eve was walking towards him, picking him out of the crowd. He watched her carefully, waiting for the signal – it was barely noticeable, but she smoothed the feathers of her mask with the tips of her fingers before making a quick but casual turn towards the ladies' room. Q waited a moment, handing his half-empty glass to a near-by waiter, before following her down the secluded hallway to the powder-rooms.

 

He was sharp on her tail as he followed her into the ladies', amid cat-calls from a couple violently kissing at the end of the hall, and she turned on him the minute the door was closed and a cursory glance had ensured all the stalls were empty. She pressed a memory stick into his palm.

 

“This was all he was carrying.” Her voice was tense, a note too high, as she looked questioningly at him. This was not what either of them had been expecting.

 

“Do you think we were targeting the wrong man?” Q turned the memory stick over in his hands, as if simply holding it would cause it to surrender its secrets.

 

“Hard to say, until we know what's on it. I don't want to risk him realising it's missing if it is important, though.” Eve pulled an earpiece from her clutch bag and slipped it on.

 

“Alright. Stay here until we can be certain.” Q put the memory stick into his pocket, before lifting his wrist-watch to his mouth. “Possible problem, keep your eyes on the target and stand-by.”

 

“Understood.” Came the reply in his ear.

 

*

 

Thankfully the cat-calling couple had disappeared as Q slipped out of the ladies' room and into the gents' opposite, leaving Moneypenny to hide from the mark who would now definitely recognise her. He locked himself in one of the stalls and, never one for being unprepared, pulled a tablet from his jacket's inside pocket. He tapped in his password and plugged the memory stick into it, pushing his mask up onto his forehead to get a better look at the screen. He rubbed his eyes as the contents of the stick were loading, his contacts proving nothing but irritating. He blinked his vision clear and pulled up the contents of the drive. It only took him a moment before he realised what they had found. He copied the contents of the drive to his tablet, made another copy on the secure servers at Q Branch, before returning the electronics to his pockets. He had heard no one else come in to the bathroom, so lifted his hand to his mouth and spoke freely.

 

“We have what we need, escort Eve out now. Repeat, we have what we need.”

 

“Understood,” Said Double-Oh-Five, “Moving now. The mark is not searching for her.”

 

“Meet me by the front entrance.” Moneypenny sounded no more relaxed now that she knew she had stolen something of great importance from an incredibly dangerous man, but she never lost her professionalism.

 

“Understood. Where's your exit, Q?”

 

“I have not been tailed. We'll rendezvous tomorrow.”

 

“Just be careful with the goods.” Said Double-Oh-Five, before Q's earpiece was filled by the odd resonance that always occurred when two wired agents were speaking; he had met Moneypenny and they were casually conversing as one might at a party. Q stopped listening, unlocking the stall door and pushing it open. He almost cried out in surprise when he saw the man leaning against the sinks opposite.

 

“Jesus Christ, Bond!” He had a hand over his heart like a hysterical woman, attempting to massage away its quick beating, whilst Bond just fixed him with his ice-blue eyes and a half-sided smirk, clearly pleased at the shock he had caused his Quartermaster. He stood up from his relaxed position and crossed the bathroom in two broad strides, making no move too assertive but not approaching passively, either. Q slapped him hard across his cheek, the sound echoing off the tile and his hand stinging with the impact. Bond winced, touching a hand to his reddening cheekbone, unprepared for the force of the strike. “ _Four months_.” Q hissed, taking a menacing step towards the agent. “You were gone for _four months_ , with not so much as a _word_ to say that you were alright, not even to say that you were alive. Do you know the _Hell_ you've put me through?” Bond opened his mouth to speak, but Q continued. “Don't, just _don't_. There is _no way_ you can know what you put me through, and I am _not okay with it_. This shit stops _right here_ , Double-Oh-Seven, because I am _not_ just some _fuck_ that you can run out on.” He raised his hand to the agent again but Bond's training made him too quick; he grabbed Q's wrist and pulled him close, pinning Q's arm to his side as he wrapped his other strong arm around the man, fully encircling him.

 

“I came back for you.” Bond said, voice low in Q's ear. “And only for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been called to my attention that I continuously got Q's eye-colour wrong. If it bothers you that much, just pretend I got it right.


	8. 8 - Shopping

Prompt Eight: Shopping

_Your voice is like a meadowlark;_   
_But your heart is like an ocean, mysterious and dark_   
_(The White Stripes – One More Cup of Coffee)_

They had said nothing to each other since sitting down at the table, the window of the café framing them like an atmospheric painting in a cheap French bistro. Bond watched everyone who walked past the window, lounging back in his chair like a leopard draped over a branch idly watching prey; it was the closest the agent came to relaxed. Q sat upright, his shoulders back, nervously toying with the spoon in his tea. It had been his suggestion that they take their meetings somewhere other than the expected, but now they were there he was realising that the centre of the crowded shopping centre might have been a bad idea – there were too many variables he couldn't account for, too many eyes that could be watching. Bond's nature told him that he was being paranoid, but no matter how he tried he couldn't completely let down his guard.

Bond put a hand over that of his Quartermaster, stilling the spoon in the cup of tea, and Q tensed. The Double-Oh gave him a smile, or as close as the man could come to one, and lent forwards, his hand still holding Q's as he gently prised his fingers away from the mug and interlocked their fingers. “Look around.” He offered the words as a quiet instruction and Q obliged, his dark eyes skirting across the patrons of the café and the shoppers passing by outside. “Just because we're watching them doesn't mean they're watching us. These people live in bubbles, concerned with nothing outside of their little worlds.” Now that he was looking Q could see it – people scolded their children, played with their phones and chatted to their friends – and he began to feel the tension seep from his shoulders. “It's a curse to live as you and I do, always expecting something in the shadows. But don't worry,” Bond lent in close enough to whisper, slipping his Quartermaster a wink, “I came armed.” Q smirked at the agent, breaking contact with his azure eyes only to place a short kiss on his lips.

“I got you something.” He let go of Bond's hand, bending quickly under the table to extract something from his leather satchel. He handed Bond a plastic report folder, with nothing but the name of an estate agent on its front cover.

“What's this?” Bond handled the folder carefully, as if it were something to be suspicious of.

“If you don't open it, you won't find out.” There was a smile playing on Q's lips and a mischievousness in his eyes which he couldn't help but show whenever he knew something someone else didn't. Bond took a few minutes to carefully skim the contents of the folder.

“This is a rent agreement.” Bond put the folder on the table, hands folded over it.

“Yes, it is.”

“For a cottage in the Lakes.”

“It's not quite the highlands, but I thought you'd like the Lakes.” Q sipped his tea, eyebrows arched. Surprising Bond with anything was like trying to rouse a sleeping lion – either it carried on sleeping, or you didn't get to live to tell the tale.

“Who's Fraser Smith?” The unfortunate thing about property was that it required someone to sign for it. Q pursed his lips and folded his hands in his lap.

“It's inconsequential. One might start to think you weren't grateful, Double-Oh-Seven.” Bond narrowed his eyes, the equivalent of the lion's tale twitching, and let out a slow breath from between his barely parted lips.

“I'm not sure I understand.” His voice was dangerous, challenging, as it was whenever he was presented with an act of kindness, but Q did not rise to it.

“In case you ever decide to be declared legally deceased again, I thought you might like a property which wouldn't get repossessed.” Bond looked at him blankly, the sharp agent uncharacteristically lost for words, and Q smirked at him. “You shan't earn a permanent place in my bed by pulling that trick again.” An incredulous purr of laughter escaped Bond's throat as he shook his head and folded his arms, turning his head to watch the crowd of shoppers bustling past.

“How can you afford it?” He said after a few minutes of silence, motioning to the lease and turning his bright eyes back to Q's dark ones.

“Money is nothing but the transfer of numbers, Bond, a stream of bits sent over an internet connection and easily manipulated. Although I would prefer if you didn't tell M that.” Bond gave him a genuine smile, the first he had seen from the agent, and his heart felt instantly lighter even if his stomach filled with butterflies at the sight. Bond cupped his chin in his hand and kissed him with a sweetness he had thought Double-Ohs incapable of.

“You're brilliant.”

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So why Fraser Smith? Could I have picked a worse name?  
> Well, not really. A guy called Charles Fraser Smith is reckoned to be the inspiration for the character of Q. You can read about him through the usual channels, should the mood take you.


	9. 9 - Around The Office

Prompt Nine: Around The Office

 

_A sharp suit and a kipper tie_

_A big arrow pointing to my fly_

_(Belle and Sebastian – Step Into My Office, Baby)_

 

“No.” Moneypenny looked up at Bond, folded arms leaning on her desk and curls falling back from her face. The Double-Oh, used to being able to take a lot of liberties with the chain of command, stood with his hands in his pockets and an expression of hurt surprise on his face at the glorified secretary's stubbornness.

 

“I was hoping you'd treat it as a favour. You did shoot me once.”

 

“And one day you'll grow a pair and get over it, love.” She turned her attentions back to her screen, but not without shooting the agent a quick smile first. “Why don't you ask Q? Seems like it would be right up his street.” A less perceptive person than Eve would have missed the slight shift in Bond's position, the slight darkening of his features, as he responded to her suggestion with stony silence. She glanced at him, furrowing her forehead. “Or is this about our darling Quartermaster?”

 

“Would you just look it up, please?” There was something like worry in Bond's eyes, only Double-Ohs didn't worry, didn't panic, did nothing but act without feeling – it was what prevented Moneypenny ever receiving a designation, though she knew she was stronger with her well-checked emotions – and yet she could still hear a note of desperation in Bond's voice. “I think it's important.”

 

“Alright.” She said, eventually. “But just this once, I'm not your personal encyclopaedia.”

 

“Off the record?”

 

“As off the record as I can be.” She pressed her lips together as she tapped out a few lines on her keyboard. Less than a minute later, she had what she was looking for. “There's not a lot here,” She said, apologetically, “And I don't know what you were hoping to find...” She sighed, scrolling through the information in front of her.

 

“Mr Fraser Smith,” She read, lowering her voice even though they were alone in her office “Exact date of birth redacted, but age at time of arrest was twenty-three. Arrested for crimes of a cyber- and regular-terrorist nature, exact charges redacted, as well as fourteen counts of GBH with intent and six counts of murder. Found guilty by a court of his peers six months after his arrest – details of the case redacted – and sentenced to life imprisonment, to be served at, you guessed it, redacted. Presumed dead in a road traffic collision which involved his transport from the court to jail, although his body was never found, so technically he's been missing for just under six years.” She looked up at Bond, his blue eyes clouded with confusion as he thought through what he'd been told.

 

“Can you be sure he's been missing for six years?”

 

“Well six years ago was the last time this file was updated. We can assume they haven't found him, else there'd be another heavily-censored entry.” She sat back in her seat, regarding him with concern – the agent seemed lost, at the very least, and the information in the file had obviously rattled him – but also with a piercing doubt. “What is it you think you know, James?”

 

“I can't say. Just trust me.” He lent over the desk, kissing her on the cheek as he always did because he didn't know how to say 'thank you', before stalking out of her office. Moneypenny watched the man on a mission leave, her hands already moving back to her keyboard to cover her tracks.

 

*

 

The break-room at Q-Branch was a surprisingly small room, given that the department took up an entire floor of the new MI6 building, but it still had space for two large whiteboards; one taking up most of the right-hand wall, the other on wheels and huddled into the left back corner. Walking into the break-room was not unlike walking into a bookmaker's office – the two whiteboards were covered in odds, the ones on the wall-mounted board arranged haphazardly into a table of names and the ones on the free-standing board organised by name and circumstance. There was also a large, locked box on the table in the centre of the room, with a piece of paper and a pen lying next to it.

 

Dr Alex Hamilton, Q-Branch's resident statistician, walked into the room, immediately crossing it with hurried steps to get to the white-board propped up in the corner. Agent 004 had just returned from another successful mission, but its success was not what concerned him. The details of all Double-Oh missions were supposed to be classified, particularly the personal ones, but in exhange for improved odds Moneypenny forwarded him the details he needed. He pulled a handkerchief from his blazer pocket and erased the numbers in the box which related to “004 – mission abroad” and replaced them with the new odds, 5:9. He quickly surveyed the board against the wall, confirming there were no changes to be made there, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

 

He barely had time to take the first sip before he was joined by the engineer Mark Turner, and his newly-acquired shadow, Macey Lee. Macey was a data analyst, on loan from the CIA, and Turner – a man in desperate need of a shower and for someone to dust the nacho crumbs off his shirt – had jumped at the chance to show her around. Macey spent all of her time in his presence with her nose noticeably wrinkled, and a folder pressed against her modest chest to protect against wandering eyes. She pushed her glasses up her nose as she glanced around at the odds on the boards.

 

“What is this, Vegas?” She put down the folder that had been shielding her and poured herself a cup of coffee. Turner fished himself a can of energy drink out of the fridge before walking over to the free-standing board.

 

“No, Miss Lee...” He said, his fake charm sliding as his forehead creased, the odds on the board not in his favour. “This is the Q-Branch Dating Pool.”

 

“Pun intended.” Added Dr Hamilton, with a smile at Macey. “There are slow days, and we must find ways to entertain ourselves. I hope we don't come across too perverse.”

 

“Not at all!” Macey said, a smile on her face. “It seems fun. Run me through it.”

 

“This,” Said Turner, gesturing to the board behind him as he walked over to join them “Is the Double-Oh Mission Board. We bet on the chances of a Double-Oh getting his or her thing on whilst on an assignment, based on things like where that assignment happens, who is sent with them...” He cracked the can of non-branded energy drink open. “Whether or not lethal force is used, that sort of thing.” He took a long pull from the can, turning to Hamilton. “What is 004 playing at, anyway? I'm going to be losing money on him at this rate.” Dr Hamilton just shrugged.

 

“Maybe he's got a girlfriend these days.” Turner snorted, lucky not to send the bright-coloured and highly-sugared liquid shooting out of his nose, and Macey looked at him with distaste.

 

“What about that board, Dr Hamilton?” She said, her voice infinitely brighter when she wasn't having to talk exclusively to her escort.

 

“Ah, this is slightly more personal.” Dr Hamilton's cheeks turned pink as he turned towards the board. “This is the Inter-Departmental Romances Board, where people can bet on the chances of certain employees of MI6 becoming 'better acquainted'. It's ever-expanding.” His voice had been growing ever quieter, and he coughed in an effort to clear his throat as Turner just grinned at his embarrassment.

 

“Ooh, there are some worse than even odds, here. So they're a sure thing, or have already happened?”

 

“A bit of both.” Turner shrugged. “Depending on the agents.” Macey sipped her coffee as her free hand traced a row and column of the huge table in front of her.

 

“007 and Moneypenny?” She asked, finger hovering over the less-than-favourable odds.

 

“That one is both.” She felt the poorly-concealed voyeur in Turner was having far too much fun. “It has already happened, and it's sure as Hell to happen again.”

 

“But all data concerning Miss Moneypenny is subject to a proviso. She is, after all, the source of the data that lets me calculate these odds.” Dr Hamilton put down his empty coffee mug and pulled the key for the lock-box from his blazer pocket. “I suppose I owe you some money, Turner, unless you'd like to carry it over to the next round?”

 

“Leave it in there, maybe 004 will get his act together. What do you say, Miss Lee?” He turned to Macey, smiling at her over the lip of his can. “Are you in?” She put down her coffee cup, returning his mischievous smile for the first time since they had met.

 

“Just let me go grab my purse.”

 

*

 

Q was still engrossed with the memory stick weeks after his acquisition of it. What he had seen of its contents, on his tablet at the masquerade party, had just been the surface, and whilst that information in of itself had been more than invaluable the device just kept offering up more secrets the more he probed it. It was like trying to find the heart of a labyrinth, every password he got right or every command he tried another turn on the path towards its core of information. He had been able to think of nothing else for days, every other action in his life becoming a secondary obligation to solving this problem. On the nights he had spent with Bond he had been distracted, with the agent more than once threatening to smother him with a pillow if he didn't turn off his laptop and go to sleep; on occasion he complied, letting the agent make him pay for his inattention, but more often than not he had left Bond in the bed and continued to work elsewhere.

 

In his office he had spread his work across several screens. The white-on-black text across his terminals made his eyes burn and his head ache, but he couldn't stop working because he knew he was close to breaking apart this mystery. He had already written his official report, already passed on all of the information that the powers that be needed, but there was so much more to know that could be so much more useful – but the usefulness of the information was only half of it, the other half was his desire to break apart the puzzle and see what made it tick. That was what he did, that was what he lived for. And nothing needed that much of his attention, so he could spare the brain-power.

 

The first thing to fully break his concentration since he acquired the pen-drive was the flashing alert message across the centre of his screen. _Unexpected File Access: Smith, Fraser_. His forehead furrowed and he readjusted his glasses, on the off-chance they had slipped so far down his nose that he could no longer trust his eyes. _Unexpected File Access_. He cursed under his breath, opening a new terminal and running the trace. Setting up the alert was one of the first things he had done after being appointed to Q-Branch; if people were accessing things they shouldn't, he wanted to be the first to know. This particular breach of access came from the office of Miss Moneypenny. _What did you need with THAT file, Eve?_ He chewed his lip and stared unseeingly at his screen, an unpleasant nervousness threatening to swell up and drag him under. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Q-Branch dating pool was something inspired by my good friend flightinflame, so for her sake I hope you enjoyed it(!)


	10. 10 - The Cheater

Prompt Ten: The Cheater

 

_I want a lover I don't have to love_

_I want a boy who's so drunk he doesn't talk_

_(Bright Eyes – Lover I Don't Have to Love)_

 

Bond refilled Eve's glass, before refilling his own, from the bottle of vodka she kept under her desk during the day but which had found its way to the tabletop when the agent had walked in two hours earlier. MI6 was closed for business, and no one walked past except the odd security guard, so they were quite free to drink, but they still felt the need to check over their shoulders before clinking their glasses and downing the shots; their furtive agents' natures never truly let him.

 

Bond had said barely two words to her since entering her office, and he hadn't needed to – the look on his face was enough to make her reach for the bottle, and whilst the man had at the very least a drinking problem a touch of the emergency vodka always helped to loosen his tongue. He would feel better once he finally said what was on his mind, she reasoned, refilling his glass again but leaving hers empty. The agent didn't seem to notice, and downed the shot without question. He had been walking under a thunder-cloud since he had asked her to research Fraser Smith, and the alcohol was hardly easing it. Bond was a melancholy drunk. He picked up the bottle and walked over to the window of her office, leaning his elbows on the windowsill and staring out into the night. She left him just a moment before walking over to him, placing a gentle hand across his broad shoulders.

 

“What's going on?” She asked, her hand tracing delicate circular motions onto his back. He said nothing in reply as he continued to watch the busy street below, his jaw firmly set to stop any words at all spilling forth unchecked. “You've been like this for weeks.”

 

“We're not talking about it.” He said, eventually, with a finality which would have led anyone else to end the conversation.

 

“James.” She chided, the arm around him gently squeezing his shoulder as a physical confirmation that it was okay. He sighed, slumping a little as he took a resigned swig from the vodka bottle. “Is this about a girl?” She had watched the agent tie himself in knots over women before, including herself, instinctively burying his feelings under years of killer's training to the point where she was sure he couldn't even understand them any more. His expression didn't change, his eyes unwavering from the spot he had picked out on the building opposite. She bit her lip before pressing on. “Is this about a boy?” The agent's eyes dropped and his shoulders tensed under her touch, and she knew she was right. It was enough to finally get him to say something.

 

“This is the stupidest thing I've ever done.”

 

“No, the stupidest thing you've ever done was in Marrakesh.” The shadow of a smile passed over the corners of Bond's mouth – as it always did when reminded of Marrakesh – before he quelled it with another mouthful of vodka. She continued to stroke his shoulders, hoping to coax more out of him. “A few weeks ago,” She said, tentatively, knowing she was walking on eggshells “You asked me to look someone up for you. When I asked you if it was about Q, you didn't answer. Is that related?” The agent said nothing, because he didn't need to. “Oh, love.” She lent her head on his shoulder, the familiar mix of alcohol and aftershave causing her own emotions to swirl uncomfortably. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

 

Again Bond said nothing, his gaze still absorbed by the London night as his hand around the neck of the bottle shook slightly – a nervous tremor he had picked up since the events at Skyfall but which he usually repressed – and Eve was consumed with a terrifying thought she had frequently about the nature of Double-Oh agents; without a purpose, without a clear sense of right and wrong, Bond was lost in a world he was no longer able to understand. It was like someone recently deafened learning to live with a world that they used to understand but were now one step removed from, only the senses Bond had lost were not physical. No matter the rhetorical nature of her question, there was nothing Bond could say in answer because, no matter the moral or ethical implications of his actions, there was no protocol for this.

 

She put her other arm around his waist, pulling him into the embrace with little resistance, her hand tracing circles into his hair as the agent lost himself in the delicate curve where her neck met her collarbone. Holding him was the least she could do as she whispered empty reassurances in his ear, knowing they would be forgotten the minute he walked out her office and never spoken of again, and she would be lying if she said her actions were entirely altruistic; she loved the smell of his cologne, the feel of his strong and confident hands on her waist, the brush of his cheek against hers as they moved so their lips could meet, softly, sweetly at first but with an ever-demanding fire driving them. His fingertips traced her spine, his palm coming to rest on the side of her neck, thumb stroking invitingly but not insistently along her elegant jawline. She let herself cave to him, to let him wet her lips with the tip of his tongue, because she needed this as much as he did, this charade of intimacy, this parody of emotion which was the closest they could come to the vulnerability of feeling something more than the basest of lusts.


	11. 11 - Wearing a Onesie

Prompt Eleven: Wearing a Onesie

_I want to be the surgeon who cuts you open,_   
_And fixes all of life's mistakes_   
_(Bright Eyes – Ship in a Bottle)_

“Miss Moneypenny.” Agent Double-Oh-Seven strode into her office, again without knocking, and leant against her desk. He tapped his fingers on the wood impatiently, fixing her with hostile blue eyes as she took a second to finish the sentence she had been halfway through typing. She looked up at him, unable to find him a smile but her chocolate eyes were still soft. “Where's Q?”

“How should I know?” She shrugged, playing with the agent's distress by over-exaggerating the movement. “The boy leads his own life.” She had given Bond many a lecture about how she wasn't his personal assistant, unable and unwilling to bend to his every whim, yet the agent remained hunched over her desk, unmoving. “I take it you tried Q Branch.”

“If he had been there,” The agent said, through gritted teeth, “Do you not think I would have found him?”

“Hey.” Moneypenny put a gentle hand over one of Bond's now clenched fists, any trace of disapproving hardness gone from her features as a matching softness crept into her voice. “Calm down, okay?” Bond took a deep breath. “And sit down, you're towering.” Bond complied, almost collapsing into the chair opposite her desk as some of the tension seemed to melt from his shoulders.

“I was meant to return some equipment.” He had just come from a mission in Taiwan, returning home in what must have been record time, and had spent most of the morning in M's office receiving a thorough debriefing. It was now ten-past two in the afternoon, and the days he must have gone without sleep were finally showing. “When I got to Q Branch, he wasn't there.”

“Other people work there, you know.” She smiled at him; sometimes the obvious slipped the minds of even the best when under pressure. “Couldn't you have left the equipment with one of the other operatives?” Bond set his jaw and gave her a piercing look, and the smile dropped from her face immediately as she knew what was happening, knew why the great James Bond had nearly thrown a hissy fit – only she didn't know, not really, and she could keep guessing forever as to the true nature of the situation, but she knew it was something to do with the outside-of-work relationship between Bond and his Quartermaster, with someone called Fraser Smith, and with why Bond had been so keen to take the overseas mission after the last time they had met in her office and gone back to hers. She knew that she shouldn't ask questions, so instead she put her hands on her keyboard and was secretly glad for the excuse to break eye-contact. “Q never checked in with security this morning...”

“What?”

“He called in sick.” She said, to calm the anger that was covering the agent's panic. “Which is... Weird, actually, he's never had a sick day in all the five years he's worked for us...”

“I have to go.” Bond stood, full of purpose, ready to ride out into the cool British afternoon like a white knight. He turned on his heel.

“Wait!” Eve called after him, the look on his face enough to tell her that he was not pleased to be reeled back in. “You can't leave with the equipment. Give it here.” She held out a hand and offered a smile. Bond turned over his third palm-print-activated Walther PPK – the first being inside a Komodo dragon and the second being at the bottom of the Rhine – his earpiece, and a small handful of electronics that were no longer recognisable as the product they once were. “I'll get them to Q Branch.”

“I'd be lost without you. Oh, and don't apologise for what I did to that.”

*

The television flashed sensationalized images of some god-forsaken, war-torn country, rebels and the army both obscured to the point where it was impossible to tell which side they were on. The voice of the woman giving the report, equal parts patronizing and derogatory, was turned down near to the point of being muted. Q watched without comprehension, the images blurred without his glasses on, as the news moved back to the studio for some commentary on the situation. Those two journalists, sat behind their desk and growing fat on their pay-cheques, could have no clue what was really happening out there. Q dropped a hand down the front of his sofa and tapped the 'off' button on his remote. He wasn't in the mood for work.

Q turned his attention from the television to the ceiling, ignoring the wave of nausea as he moved his head. He was lying on his two-seater sofa, his legs curled up in a way which had long since become uncomfortable, with his dressing-gown acting as a makeshift blanket. He had managed to drag a pillow with him from his bedroom, under which was stored his service weapon, and he had placed a large mixing bowl next to the sofa should he feel like he would be sick again; he was certain his legs would refuse to carry him as far as the bathroom. He heard the front door of the converted town-house, of which he occupied the top floor, open and shut – most likely his downstairs neighbour returning. He shut his eyes.

His eyes snapped open again when he heard a foot on the stair outside his door. There was no one who had reason to be coming up to his apartment. He strained his ears to listen to the advancing steps, wishing he could get up to grab his tablet to tap into the CCTV camera that watched his door. He cursed himself, knowing that if he had stopped for two seconds before stumbling through to the sofa he might have thought to pick it up. The footsteps stopped just shy of his door, but the bell didn't ring. There was a moment of silence before he heard the unmistakeable click and grind of a set of lock-picks being inserted. He pushed his glasses onto his nose and forced himself into a sitting position, his eyes watering and head swimming with the effort, before slipping his pistol out from under his pillow. The door opened as he clicked the safety off and lined up his sights.

An ever-casual, if slightly startled, Bond raised his hands in a show of surrender. Q snapped the safety back on but didn't lower the muzzle, despite his arms already shaking from exhaustion.

“Put that down before you hurt yourself.” Bond said, kicking the front door shut with his heel and sauntering over to the sofa. Q lowered his sights, sitting back against the arm of the sofa, a trickle of sweat running from his forehead and down a clammy cheek.

“Don't you knock?”

“I couldn't be sure your residence hadn't been compromised.” Bond gave the room an involuntary glance even as he spoke.

“Sometimes people call in sick, Bond.” Q's voice reflected the exhaustion he was feeling. The effort of sitting upright for so long would have been enough to tire him, even without the exchange with the man who had just broken into his flat.

“I can see that.” Bond folded his arms, surveying his Quartermaster, clearly torn between sadistic pleasure and genuine concern. “You look terrible.” In what seemed to be one motion he took the gun from Q's lax hand, walked around the sofa, and was gesturing at Q to move over. He slipped in next to him and pulled him close, cradling him as one might a sick child. He placed a kiss in Q's matted hair before turning the pistol over in his lap. “Is this a Beretta BU9?”

“I don't take to being mocked, Double-Oh-Seven.” Q was starting to feel a touch better now he had the well-formed frame of James Bond supporting him, but he still had to close his eyes as another wave of nausea passed over him. “It fires bullets and doesn't cause an unsightly bulge in one's jacket.” He said, defensively.

“Speaking of unsightly -”

“Leave it.” Q warned, wondering if he had the strength to slap the agent.

“I was only going to comment on your interesting choice of night-wear.” Q's cheeks reddened as he felt Bond's eyes surveying his onesie. It was sky blue, with clouds printed at its shoulders and grass creeping up from his ankles to his waist, and was a birthday present which had spent the entirety of its life buried at the bottom of one of his drawers. It had been the only thing he had been capable of putting on that morning, as he hadn't needed to stand all that much.

“Be quiet. I am sure I look adorable in it.”

*

“How are you feeling?” Bond handed Q a glass of water, as he spat a final mouthful of stomach lining into the toilet bowl. He rinsed his mouth with the first mouthful, spitting that out too, before downing half the glass.

“I've pulled muscles I didn't even know I had.” Q let Bond help him up with a firm hand on his upper arm, before the agent gripped him by his waist and held him against him. He let Q stand for a while, before guiding him back to the living room.

Q fell, rather than sat, on the sofa when Bond let go of him. Bond sat and pulled Q close, allowing him to place his head in his lap. He placed one hand on Q's shoulder, gently massaging his shoulder with the length of his thumb, the other hand running its fingers through his thick, dark hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for the first few books, Bond's weapon is a pocket Beretta. It was switched to something more manly on the advice of one of Ian Fleming's readers, who described the Beretta as being a very womanly gun. For some reason, it tickled me for Q to be firing the Beretta over something more manly.


	12. 12 - Spooning

Prompt Twelve: Spooning

 

_Well I'll confess to all of my sins,_

_After several large gins,_

_But still I'll hide from you_

_(The Libertines – Music When The Lights Go Out)_

 

Q had managed to sleep for an hour or two with his head in Bond's lap, as Bond mindlessly channel-flipped between taking the odd business call and otherwise fidgeting with his phone. Bond had noticed Q growing hot to the touch as he slept, and when he awoke he raised a hand to push damp hair out of his face.

 

“When did it get so warm in here?”

 

“It didn't.” Bond said, encouraging Q to sit up. “You've developed a fever.” Bond pushed the sleeves of Q's onesie to his elbows, and unzipped the all-encompassing pyjamas to his navel. “I'm going to check it's nothing more serious than that.”

 

“Thank you, Nurse Bond.” Q tried a smile, but the agent didn't even look him in the eye. Bond was examining as much of his chest as he could without fully stripping him. He had always found a fascinating facet of the Double-Oh package to be their ability to concentrate solidly on the well-being of a fellow agent, to the point where they blocked out any empathy they might still have possessed, so that they could treat the injured's wounds like a problem to be solved. Bond had that steely concentration on his face; it seemed as if he hadn't even heard what Q had said.

 

“Touch your chin to your chest.” Bond instructed in calm, measured tones as he checked Q's exposed wrists. Q complied, and Bond seemed satisfied. “Do you have a headache?”

 

“Only the one I've had since you showed up.” Bond gave him an unimpressed look, lips pursed.

 

“Do you think you can make it to bed by yourself?” Q nodded. “Alright. Take that off when you get there, and lie on top of the sheets.” Bond lingered long enough to help Q to his feet, before disappearing into the kitchen.

 

He could get used to this domesticated Bond, Q thought, as he stepped out of his onesie and sat on his bed. He had left the window open, and the room was pleasantly cool. Bond joined him a second later, placing a glass of iced water on the bedside table next to Q, before stripping off his suit. Q suppressed a shudder when he saw the large laceration on Bond's back, and the chunk out of his arm which suggested he had narrowly missed a bullet.

 

*

 

“Q?”

 

“Double-Oh-Seven?” Q's voice was thick with the sleep his body craved but his mind was sharp, alert, as if he could sense the question that was coming next.

 

“Who's Fraser Smith?”

 

“I told you it was irrelevant.” He attempted to sit up, to slide out from under the agent's heavy arm that was wrapped around his waist, but Bond had him pinned and only pulled him closer. He sighed, eyes shut, too weak to fight back.

 

“You word you used was 'inconsequential'.” He could feel the agent's breath against the curve of his neck as they lay together, his spine connecting at every vertebrae with Bond's sculpted chest, his well-toned stomach, and it made his own breath catch in his throat. Bond placed a tender kiss on his neck, converse to the arm which held him in place, before continuing. “But I don't think it is. So tell me.”

 

“And what if I don't?” He had intended his tone to be casual, almost flippant, but the words left his mouth loaded with antagonism and challenge. All he could do was lay still, aware that his fight-or-flight response wanted nothing more than to make him run.

 

“Do you think that's a good idea?” He could feel the agent smiling against his neck, that arrogant, unfriendly smirk, and his tone made Q freeze; Double-Ohs were well-versed in torture, and whilst he knew Bond would never seriously harm him – not unless it were in the line of duty – the very thought of what he was capable of would be enough to make Q feel faint if he weren't holding so tightly to his wits. He wet his lips and steadied his breathing.

 

“Is that a threat?” Bond shifted and Q tensed, knowing he was playing with fire, knowing he shouldn't have questioned, knowing he should just have _told_ him what he wanted to know; the hand that had been resting under Bond's head met with Q's neck, his thumb just under the vertebra which joined Q's neck and spine.

 

It was the slightest of pressures, a barely noticeable push inwards and slightly upwards, that caused the explosion of pain along Q's spine – as if someone had inserted a million red-hot needles into him from his neck to the small of his back. It only took a slight turn of Bond's thumb, little more than a nudge, for the pain to sharpen to a brilliant intensity, his shoulders locking as his shoulder-blades pushed back involuntarily. Lights flashed before his eyes. He bit his lip so hard, desperate not to cry out, that he drew blood.

 

“ _Shit, alright._ ” Bond released the pressure, the back of his hand gently stroking the point he had been pressing against. Q took a moment to catch his breath and find his voice. “Fraser Smith was a terrorist and a murder. He killed six people with a home-made chemical weapon.”

 

“Now that's interesting.” Bond said, his voice all the more dangerous for being barely more than a whisper. “I checked his file, and the exact nature of his crimes had been removed. So how would you know that?”

 

“How did I get the chemical burn on my arm you've left so tactfully unmentioned?” He was bitter, that much was obvious, but he held more remorse than he could ever keep in. His eyes burnt with tears but he refused to let them fall.

 

“That could have happened any number of -”

 

“ _Don't make me say it._ ” Q's voice broke as tears spilled down his cheeks and nose, making the pillow damp, as the guilt that had been growing inside of him – from the tiniest seed of self-doubt to powerful vines twisting every part of him – finally had someone to be shared with. “I will tell you anything, everything, but _please_ don't make me say it.”

 

“Thank you.” Bond kissed his neck, then lifted himself up to kiss his cheek. “You can tell me everything I want to know when you're feeling better.” He withdrew his arm from around Q's waist and turned away from him.

[End.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I took a few liberties with how pressure points work, sue me.   
> Btwps, nearly 1000 hits! You guys! <3


	13. 13 - Eating Ice Cream

Prompt Thirteen: Eating Ice-Cream

 

_I give in to sin_

_Because I like to practice what I preach_

_(Depeche Mode – Strangelove)_

 

A leather gloved hand crept into Q's line of vision, across his desk and under his nose. It deposited a small cardboard cup on his desk, just above his keyboard, although the thing he noticed first was the bright pink, miniature plastic spoon sticking out of it.

 

“What is that?” He asked, not looking away from his screen.

 

“A peace offering.” The voice was enough to make him look up. James Bond was holding his own cardboard pot, with neon green spoon, and despite the spring weather he was dressed in not only the leather gloves but a wool coat as well. The turned collar framed his face and sharpened his features. “You've been avoiding me.”

 

“Have I?” Q locked his screen and picked up the pot, the outside of which was ice-cold to the touch, and tipped it towards him. “Mint choc chip.” He observed, mostly to himself. “So sometimes you do listen.”

 

*

 

The sun was bright and almost warm, but there was still a harsh chill in the breeze that blew across the roof-top. It whipped Q's hair back from his face, and he was thankful his all-weather mac kept most of the cold out. He and Bond sat next to each other on an old chimney, long since covered over with concrete slabs, huddled together against the chill.

 

“This seemed like a much better idea at street level.” Bond gestured towards the side of the building with his neon spoon. “The weather down there is glorious.”

 

“You really didn't think this through, did you?” Q delicately put another spoonful of ice-cream in his mouth, his sensitive back teeth stinging in protest, his tongue tingling with the taste of real peppermint which was quickly chased by the bitterness of the dark chocolate. Bond had bought himself lemon sorbet, and Q found the back of his mind wondering what it might taste like second-hand, how the bitterness of the lemon would marry with the sharpness of the mint. He put another spoonful in his mouth and let the scream from his teeth drown out those thoughts, at least for the time being.

 

“With counts of terrorism, and that many deaths and casualties, points to some kind of device.” Bond said, casually, but there was a tightness in his tone. Q's stomach twinged; he had been under no delusions as to why Bond had brought him up here, or that they would be able to avoid this conversation indefinitely, but that didn't stop it being unpleasant. “Chemical, or explosive?”

 

“The first was chemical.” He involuntarily moved his arm, where under all the layers lived the old chemical burn, forever part of his skin as a reminder of what he had done. “I miscalculated the timings for the detonator and inadvertently became a trial run.” He cleared his throat, his voice feeling sticky from the mix of ice-cream and guilt. “It wasn't good enough, so the second was explosive.”

 

“Who hired you to build it?”

 

“The IRA. And don't ask which one, I don't remember.” Bond turned to look at him, his eyes narrowed.

 

“I didn't know you had any Irish ties.”

 

“I don't.” Q smiled ruefully at him, taking the empty sorbet pot from Bond's hands and stacking it in his own empty pot. “Sometimes you just have to sell to the highest bidder.” Bond's eyes grew dark and his lips pursed, his distaste clear enough to burn. “Oh, please. You and I aren't so different. A licence to kill for Queen and country is no different than doing so for any other reason. It's a cause someone's deemed worthy enough to kill for. If it makes me any easier to live with, it hurts a little bit more every day.” He put the empty ice-cream pots on the covered chimney-top behind him and made to stand up, but Bond put a hand on his shoulder. His eyes were still cold, and Q knew he hadn't been forgiven just yet, but he still wanted him here. He put a hand on Q's knee.

 

“None of that explains how you ended up here.”

 

“You build a bomb that beautiful and you don't go unnoticed by the secret service. They staged my death and kept me in a cell for the best part of six years, designing all kinds of things. There was never a dull day, I can say that much. Certainly more than prison.”

 

“That still doesn't explain how a danger to society ended up as my Quartermaster.”

 

“That, Double-Oh-Seven, is beyond your pay-grade. Rest assured they have me well under control.” Bond lent in close, his lips inches from Q's cheek as his fingers dug into his thigh.

 

“I'm not sure I want you completely under control.” A shiver ran up Q's spine as Bond's hand ran up his leg, their lips meeting in a brusque and hungry kiss.


	14. 14 - In a Corset

Prompt Fourteen: In a Corset

 

_But I won't be your concubine,_

_I'm a puppet not a whore_

_(James Blunt – Out of My Mind)_

 

Moneypenny's job involved just about everything; from liaising with other government departments, drafting apologies to embassies, and guarding M's stranger office decorations whilst he was away (the staff being the most commonly stolen), her job not only involved everything but it also let her know everything. She had always had an incredible memory, that and her sharp eye for detail and shooting were what granted her employment, so mostly it was a filtering task - sort the critical from the irrelevant, and the truth from the gossip. Most of what she knew was unnecessary for her to complete her work, although that didn't stop her listening, but ever so occasionally something crossed her radar she couldn't help but get involved with. Recently, there had been some particularly strange data access requests from Q Branch which had piqued her attention. 

 

She walked into Q Branch with her tablet PC in hand, ever aware of the not-unappreciated attention from the usual boys, attempting to keep the devilish smile from her face. She found Q looking over the shoulder of two grey-hats, supervising them in cracking a particularly difficult server. 

 

"Miss Moneypenny," said Q, catching her reflection in one of the monitors "Always a pleasure." 

 

"Isn't it?" She toyed, unlocking her tablet with a swipe of her finger. "Couple of things I thought you should know: firstly, Head of Data Analysis at MI5 called, something about you 'overstepping your bounds again'..." Q groaned, tilting his head back in exasperation. "And secondly, Mark Turner wants to know your waist-size." 

 

"My what?" Q turned to face her, forehead creased in confusion. 

 

"Your waist-size." She repeated, playfully slowly, as one might reiterate simple facts to a slow child. 

 

"Now why would he want to know that?" 

 

"I don't know." She smiled, eyes bright with mischief. "I came down to find out." 

 

*

 

Moneypenny had refused to leave his side until he had followed up with Turner, as if she had some sixth sense for his impending humiliation, so once he was sure his hackers knew how to proceed he walked her through to engineering. Mark Turner was standing behind a dressmaker's dummy, his pudgy fingers pushing a needle of terrifying proportions through the material of what appeared to be a ladies' undergarment. 

 

"Mr Turner," said Q, eying the garment with suspicion as he suppressed the embarrassed pink rising in his cheeks "Would you care to explain?" 

 

"This," Turner stepped back to admire his work, gesturing with the grandeur of a Victorian magician "Is a Kevlar corset!" 

 

"Of course it is." Q rubbed his forehead; this was going to be trouble, he could tell, and the associated headache was already beginning to form. “And you need to know my waist-size because...?”

 

“Because it needs to be fitted. And none of the ladies around here are willing to try it on.” Turner managed to be both sheepish and lecherous as he spoke, casting his eyes over a less-than-impressed Moneypenny. He pulled a dressmaker's tape-measure from his trouser pocket. “So, sir, if you wouldn't mind putting your arms out straight...” Q sighed and complied, letting the engineer pull the measure tight around his waist whilst Moneypenny looked on, barely able to contain her amusement. He could do nothing but glare and hold his tongue, as Turner threw aside the tape-measure with a satisfied flourish. 

 

“I suppose I'm lucky enough for it to fit?” 

 

“Right you are, sir.” Turner loosened the lace on the corset and slipped it over the mannequin's head. Q pulled off his fishtail cable-stitched jumper, ruffling his hair and almost losing his glasses in the process, before handing it to an excitable Moneypenny whose mouth twisted into a gleeful smile and whose eyes held a predatory glimmer. 

 

*

 

Q braced himself against Mark Turner's desk as the engineer pulled the lace of the corset tight; the boning nipped his ribcage and forced a sharp breath from his lips. Their little show had drawn quite a crowd, not helped in the least by Turner's loud American ex-understudy from Analytics. One look from Q could send them skittering away like frightened mice, but he was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on the audience the more the vice-like corset was tightening around him. 

 

“Why is this even necessary?” He asked Moneypenny, who was sat opposite him with a look of smug satisfaction on her face.

 

“Have _you_ ever tried to go undercover in a bullet-proof vest?” She answered.

 

“I suppose I – _shit_ , would you _be gentle_?” Turner muttered something in apology and loosened the lace slightly. “I suppose I see your point. This is far more subtle.” 

 

“You'd be surprised what you can fit under a dress. But from what I hear, that's hardly your area of expertise.” 

 

“There is a phrase about gossips, Miss Moneypenny, which I feel would be appropriate.” Q felt the edges of his cheekbones go pink, betraying him despite his bitter remark's best efforts. Moneypenny said nothing in return, merely smiling smugly at him. 

 

“Now if you'd stand up straight, sir, we'll check the fit.” Q pushed himself off the desk and stood upright, his stomach and hipbones now finding it in them to complain about the corset's restrictive nature. He could feel Turner's eyes running over the curves of the Kevlar, no doubt imagining a buxom swimsuit model was amply filling it instead of his curve-less Quartermaster. He scurried around Q pulling at the edges of the corset, leaving greasy finger-prints all over the dark material, and when that didn't correct the fit he produced a piece of dressmaker's chalk and began marking sections according to some personal code which meant nothing to Q or Moneypenny. “I should probably warn you,” He said after a while, standing back to survey his work and dusting his chalky hands on his jeans “I invited an expert on this... kind of thing,” He gestured awkwardly at the corset “To come have a look at it. To see if it's up to scratch.” 

 

Q didn't need to ask who Turner's resident expert was, and from the glint in Moneypenny's eye neither did she. There was but one agent within the entirety of MI6 who could be considered more of an expert on the female form and its claddings than any other, and it was perhaps the one person that Q desired to see least at that very moment. He knew he would be difficult, and the situation called for a decorum and professionalism that he wasn't sure Bond would be able to bring – he was cold and distant at best in the workplace, but there were some opportunities that would be unable to go unexploited. 

 

*

 

There was a lot to be said in the fact that Bond said nothing when he walked into the engineering division of Q Branch, despite the suppressed ripple across his features that, thankfully, only Q and Moneypenny caught. The crowd had dispersed in the wake of the Double-Oh, with the exception of the CIA's Macey Lee who hung by the door in awe of the agent, leaving Q relieved but all the more concerned – whilst there were fewer eyes to witness this degrading treatment, a lack of witnesses meant Bond would be free to push the boundaries of acceptable behaviour further than he might have tried otherwise.

 

Turner briefed Bond on what he needed the agent to tell him and the both began circling Q, Bond casting his piercing, critical eye over the garment as much as the man beneath it, with Turner following him like a puppy desperate for its master's approval. Bond was as honest as he was diplomatic, telling the engineer that it “looked enough like the genuine article”, and that there was no reason for him to suspect it hadn't been purchased from a reputable, non-MI6 source (“except for this crooked stitching, here”). 

 

“Great!” Said Turner, indecently pleased with the Double-Oh's approval. “And now for the touch-test.” 

 

“Excuse me?” Bond faltered, a rare crease of confusion on his forehead. Moneypenny lent forwards in her chair, watching intently, as Q's shoulders sank visibly in a show of defeat. 

 

“The touch-test. 'Cause if it feels like Kevlar... Look,” Turner held out his hands, as if to grab Q's waist, as he tripped over his words. “Just... 'approach', as you would, and see what you think.” 

 

There was a pause, no more than a heartbeat, in which Q's refusal to make eye-contact wouldn't have granted Bond permission to move even if he had been looking for it. Bond straightened the sleeves of his suit jacket, a nervous reaction of his which showed whenever he was in a situation not governed by protocol, before stepping forwards. Q's next breath came sharply; he could barely feel the shadow of Bond's hands on his waist under the Kevlar but it was enough to make him freeze.


	15. 15 - In a Different Clothing Style

Prompt Fifteen: In a Different Clothing Style

 

_I travel the world and the seven seas,_

_Everybody's looking for something_

_(Eurythmics – Sweet Dreams)_

 

The hardest thing about running away, on the word of one of James Bond's whims, was the paperwork. MI6's finest Double-Oh might be granted liberties when it came to disappearing into thin air whenever it best suited him, but his Quartermaster was not so lucky; he was still, technically speaking, detained at Her Majesty's pleasure, so when Bond called his personal number, explaining that he wouldn't be coming back to headquarters for debriefing and Q should probably meet him at his cottage in the Lakes, Q panicked. He had never taken a personal day, let alone a holiday, quite simply because he was not permitted to. To the outside world he seemed dedicated, perhaps a touch obsessed, and whilst he was incredibly focussed it was helped by the fact that even a day's slacking could land him somewhere a lot less comfortable than his flat in the converted town-house. He had told Bond he would meet him there, without even stopping to think how he would get permission to take the time – the last time he had been granted a day away from the office he had had to prove he was physically sick, and as much as he might feel for Bond and his current state of mind (for if Bond was asking him to drop everything and run with him then there was only one possible state of mind he could have), there were limits on what he was willing to do.

 

He took his plight to the one person he thought could trust. Despite having a mind like a gutter and a mouth like a sailor when it came to her speculations about the relationship between himself and Bond, she had a surprising compassion which meant she would sweet-talk M for him (because 'everyone needs a holiday, once in a while sir') and rush through the paperwork that would allow him to leave. He was on a train out of Euston within two hours of preparing to beg at her feet for her help (a preparation which proved unnecessary, as long as he promised her advance information to help her chances in the Q Branch betting pool).

 

*

 

By the time he had paid the cab driver and retrieved his suitcase from the boot, the last of the day's warm sunlight was beginning to fade. The cottage was set into a hill, the top of it still catching the sinking sun, with a long winding path leading up to the front door. He had seen pictures of it, of course, when he had purchased it and it had looked beautiful then, but now he was here it was idyllic. The hillside, which constituted its front garden, was dotted with clumps of brightly-coloured summer flowers and the light evening breeze carried on it the scent of evening jasmine and late honeysuckle. It was like every childhood holiday he could remember, only with one key difference – the cottages his parents had rented for two weeks every June had been missing the man absent-mindedly gardening outside of this one, bare-footed and with a bottle of Heineken in his hand.

 

Even at distance, Bond was striking. His polo shirt clung to his shoulders, pulling tight around his sculpted arms and across his chest as he bent over to pull a weed from the flower-bed at the front of the cottage. He threw it aside, not having anything else to do with it, his tanned muscles catching the last glimmers of the fading light as they flexed at the apex of the throw. He hadn't noticed the cab, or if he had it hadn't registered, and he didn't even glance down the hill after the discarded, tumbling plant. He raised the beer bottle to his lips, his silhouette stunning against the cobbles of the cottage, and Q took just one last chance to take him in. From this distance, he seemed like any other man of the country, in his polo shirt and chinos pulling errant weeds from the garden's borders. There was nothing to suggest that his honed physique was a murder weapon, that his casual gardening was a distraction from the crimes he had committed.

 

Q walked up the path slowly, not wanting to ruin the vista that was Bond in the setting sun but knowing he would have to. Bond registered him when he was halfway up the path and downed the remainder of the beer before passing the empty bottle through the cottage's open front window. He watched Q approach, a guarded suspicion playing on his features and the evening sun making his blue eyes glow. Q dropped his suitcase on the doorstep and turned to Bond, not knowing what to say but not needing to say anything at all; he gathered the pieces of Bond up in his arms, his imposing physical form suddenly seeming so small, and held him as tightly as he could. He could smell the mix of alcohol and tobacco on his clothes, in his hair as Bond buried his face into Q's shoulder, his breathing shallow and ever so slightly fractured. Neither one of them moved, save for the rhythmic stroking of Q's palm on the back of Bond's neck, until Bond broke contact.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Q asked, although he was certain he already knew the answer. Bond answered by lighting another cigarette and turning his back. He lent through the open window and brought out two more bottles of Heineken.

 

“Take your jacket and tie off. You're on holiday, for Christ's sake.” Bond sat down heavily on the grass, a bottle still in each hand and not a drop spilt. Even in the shadow of the cottage the air was still warm; Q threw his tie inside through the open window, followed by his blazer. “And your shoes. You'd be surprised how relaxing the grass between your toes is.”

 

“I really don't think that's my scene.” Q unbuttoned the top of his shirt and rolled his sleeves up, the cool edge in the breeze turning his forearms into goose-flesh.

 

“Indulge me.” Bond looked up at him, his tone demanding but a stark vulnerability in his eyes which made Q reconsider. He sat next to Bond, close enough for their shoulders to touch, and bent to loosen the laces on his brogues. Minutes later they were both bare-foot, lying next to each other with their fingers interlaced staring up at the darkening sky. The first of the brightest stars and planets were beginning to shine through the emerging twilight. Q didn't much care for lager but he found himself halfway through the bottle as he tried to find the courage to ask again.

 

“So,” He turned his head towards Bond, his voice soft and gentle as he admired every contour of the agent's hard face. He had decided that he wouldn't push the matter, that he would tread as carefully as he had to, but he had to ask. That was the least he could afford the man next to him. He gave Bond's hand a brief squeeze. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

[End.]


	16. 16 - During Their Morning Ritual(s)

Prompt Sixteen: During Their Morning Ritual(s)

 

_Another dirty-money_

_Heaven-sent honey_

_Turning on a dime_

_(Alicia Keys feat. Jack White – Another Way to Die)_

 

A natural routine began to form, as they lived out the few days they had together as if they could stay like it forever, in the idyllic postcard-picture cottage on the side of the hill. Bond's internal clock seemed still to be set to military time, or perhaps even MI6's field agents were required at sunrise, and Q knew instinctively that he shouldn't ask where he went on his morning runs, or why he strapped on his PPK under his sports jacket before he left, or even complain if the creak of the bedroom door woke him up. Instead he would just turn over, for he would be a nocturnal creature if he could, and hide his face from the cheery, if weak, morning sunlight.

 

Bond always returned within two-and-a-half and three hours – so he had two routes, probably circular, and Q had to force himself not to figure out the most probable paths – and the rattle of the front door never failed to rouse Q, his hair ruffled and his vision blurred. He would barely have time to push his glasses on his nose before Bond would be standing in the bedroom doorway, his breathing heavy and his jacket and Walther already removed, body hot and soul hungry. He would stride over to the bed, eyes wide and dark, pulling Q into his arms and placing a rough and messy kiss on his lips. In seconds they would be stripped, Q's mind sharpened from sleep and his heart racing as he pulled Bond to the floor, already hard, his wrists or shoulders pinned in a show of control which never failed to make his breath catch. If Bond wasn't ready for it before he was after that, giving Q a moment to wrap his legs around his waist, before forcing him to choke back a cry with his teeth in Bond's shoulder. It was violent, animalistic, brutal enough to make Q scream and savage enough to leave both of them sweat-drenched, shaking, bloody from the bites and scratches.

 

He would leave Q on the floor, crumpled, unable to talk and barely able to breathe, and a few seconds later the sound of hot running water from the shower would drift through the connecting, slightly open bathroom door. Q would leave him, knowing again that he should even if his knees were capable of supporting him, until he saw the edge of the shower door and Bond's hand reach out for one of the soft white towels. He always left the water running for Q, a strange chivalrous quirk that had refused to be ironed out of the trained killer, so when Q's legs decided to let him stumble to the shower the heat that hit him was immediate and hot enough to scald his skin pink. He didn't mind; there was something domestic about standing under the steaming hot water, with Bond milling around on the other side of the frosted glass looking for his straight razor, that made him more content than he thought there could be words for.

 

He would shut off the water when it began to turn cold, roughly drying himself with another of the white towels before slipping on his towelling dressing-gown (for he felt the cold, even in a steam-filled bathroom) and clearing the condensation from his glasses. Bond would be standing in front of the mirror, towel around his waist, applying the last of his shaving cream or else considering the cool metal of the cut-throat razor, the tremor in his hand barely noticeable now but still there. Q would put his hand over Bond's, teasing the razor from his hands with a gentle firmness, and instruct him to sit on the closed toilet lid. He would slip between Bond's legs, those muscular thighs evident even through the layers of towel, and gently tilt the agent's face into the best light. He was painfully aware he was not the only person to have done this, but when he looked into the man's crystal blue eyes it hardly seemed to matter. Bond invariably asked if he would like a hair-band, as the wet tendrils of Q's hair brushed his forehead, and Q would always shush him as he concentrated intently on the slip of the razor over the man's beautifully-sculpted face, leaning in close enough so their lips would brush at every opportunity. Q was skilled with the blade, something that never failed to quietly impress, and could have been done in moment, but he took his time as he straightened up, tilting the agent's head back with a hand in his hair to hold him still. The gentle pull of the blade against Bond's neck was enough to make both their breaths catch in anticipation, in excitement, and when the last of the shaving cream was gone Q occasionally had to sink to his knees to relieve some of the pressure.

 

They both bore battle scars from the vicious nature of their carnal relationship – Q's wrists were bruised, his bottom lip bitten raw, and Bond's back was a network of scratches, his shoulders bearing teeth marks from where Q had been struggling between pleasure and pain and had needed something for purchase – but nothing as serious as the injuries Bond had brought back with him from his most recent assignment. On his knees or not, Q would retrieve the abnormally-well-supplied first-aid kid from the cupboard under the bathroom sink to patch up his wounded agent. Most of the cuts on his face, from falling onto broken glass, were now merely shadows of what they had been, but the deeper ones across his eyebrow and the bridge of his nose required a delicate dab of antiseptic lotion. Bond flinched, as he always did, but made no move to stop Q from fixing him. Next came the remnants of a black eye, from a fist-fight, which was treated to a smearing of arnica gel. The worst of his remaining wounds, the one Q always had to mentally steel himself for, was in the top of Bond's arm. A bullet had been dug from it, and someone, perhaps Bond himself, had crudely stitched it up. On their first night at the cottage together Q had pulled the stitches loose and done them again, so that they were neater and cleaner, despite Bond's protests that the bullet had barely even grazed him. Now it only needed a coating of antiseptic and a fresh dressing applied, but as a reminder that everyone was fallible it turned Q's stomach to look at.

 

They would dress in silence, Bond barely capable of less than smart-casual and Q in designer shirts and jeans (for money is 'nothing but the transfer of numbers'), before either one would say anything substantial at all. Some days they would find something to do together, walking through the small copse at the top of the hill or playing chess whilst chatting about nothing or exchanging barbs, and never talking about work. Sometimes Bond would say that he had slept particularly poorly and would lie on top of the sheets staring at the ceiling until sleep took him whilst Q sat with him on the seat underneath the bedroom's window, reading one of the tattered volumes that had been on the cottage's bookshelf or tapping away at his tablet, an uninvited but not unwanted presence. Then, there were the times Bond asked him to stay.

 

Q sat back against the headboard, Bond's head in his lap and using his shoulders as an impromptu book-rest. He would be lying if he said his stomach didn't give a little flutter when he was asked to stay, like a school-girl holding the hand of her first boyfriend, and his limbs felt warm and heavy with that same domestic bliss he got when they did the washing-up as a tag-team (despite the Hell Bond gave him with the damp tea-towel). It was pleasant, and he could get used to it if they weren't living under the storm-cloud which stalked Bond and cast a shadow over his otherwise fine features.

 

“I couldn't save him.” The Double-Oh said, quietly, just as Q was toying with the thought of asking him again what had prompted this recent act of escapism. Q folded back the page he was on and put the book aside, running his hands through Bond's hair and over his shoulders.

 

“I know you would have tried your hardest.”

 

“It wasn't enough. He put his trust in me and it got him killed.” His tone was bitter, self-hating and painful to listen to. Q sighed, closing his eyes and resisting the urge to bang his head against the wall behind him. He knew a thing or two about guilt, but he couldn't stand watching the agent tear himself apart. It was easy to make the mistake of thinking that Double-Ohs were stronger than normal humans, or in fact not human at all, but underneath they were more fragile than most.

 

“Don't do this to yourself.” Bond began to protest but Q dug his fingers into his shoulder. “That's an order, Double-Oh-Seven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are, of course, from the Quantum of Solace theme.


	17. 17 - Wearing Each Others' Clothes

Prompt Seventeen: Wearing Each Others' Clothes

 

_He'd like to have a gun just to keep him warm,_

_Because violence here is a social norm_

_(The Police – Rehumanize Yourself)_

 

All Q was aware of was pain, brilliant and blinding, filling his head with a pulsing heat which threatened to crack his skull open. He ached all over, with every joint screaming if he even thought about moving. He had to have been beaten. He was lying in a dead-end alley somewhere, bloody and bruised; it was the only explanation. He could remember nothing of how he might have got there. 

 

Slowly he opened his eyes, gingerly testing the most simple of his functions. He was not in a godforsaken alley somewhere, but in the small living room of Bond's Lake District cottage. The floor was littered with the tiny plastic armies of Risk - he couldn't see the game's board but it had to be close by - and he could count three empty bottles of well-aged and dusty liquor. Amongst the brightly-coloured armies and neglected bottles clothes were scattered, but his mind, fuzzy with sleep and the alcohol's after-effects, couldn't figure out who they belonged to. 

 

"Dear God, what happened?" He leant backwards into the sofa, his back arching against it, to avoid the sunbeam that was coming through the curtains and directly into his eyes. He was completely nude, save for the moth-eaten tartan blanket protecting his dignity, and cold to go with it. Bond groaned, turning his face away from the brightness of the morning. He was curled into Q, his head in his lap, somehow entirely covered by a small beige fur throw. 

 

"You couldn't take not knowing what was in that mysterious locked cupboard." Bond's voice was hoarse, his throat raw from scotch and cigarettes. Q had a vague recollection of searching every drawer in the cottage for a pair of paperclips in lieu of a set of lock-picks, but nothing about the fruitfulness of the search. He must have found some, because the cupboard in question, built into the wall behind the stairs, was open and empty. 

 

"The previous owners anticipated us." Bond continued, sitting himself upright but not without effort. He stretched, his joints clicking as he flashed the fresh scratch-marks on his arms and back. "They left us two bottles of scotch, one of gin, Risk and a Scrabble set." 

 

"Remind me why I agreed not to beat you at Scrabble." Q rubbed his eyes, the pounding in his head refusing to subside. 

 

"Because I promised to break your arms if you did." 

 

"That's how you deal with all healthy competition." He curled his legs up and pulled the tartan around him, in an attempt to combat the morning chill that always seeped through the stone walls. "Now remind me why I drank so much." Normally he was a man of moderation, who knew his limits and would never push them for a fear of loss of control, but the headache and memory loss told him something very different had happened the previous night. 

 

"You got depressed after an ill-advised anti-Russian offensive didn't go your way." 

 

"More fool on me, I suppose." He watched as Bond lent over, grabbing the first item of clothing his fingers brushed. "Whose are those?"

 

"Yours." Bond said, stepping into them regardless. Q let his eyes trace the agent's finely-sculpted form as he slipped the trousers over firm buttocks with surprising ease; he was surprised Bond could button them, given that Bond was built like a tom-cat and he like a kitten. Bond pulled his PPK from down the side of the sofa's cushions and slipped it into the makeshift holster that was the back of his waistband. "Tea?" He called over his shoulder as he sauntered towards the kitchen. 

 

Q mumbled his approval, casting out his own hand in search of something to wear. He happened upon a pair of boxers, of unknown ownership, and Bond's shirt which, whilst near comically large across the chest and shoulders, gave him a strange sense of warmth and security which he decided had to be better than freezing. 

 

In the kitchen they worked as one, with Q rinsing mugs whilst Bond boiled water on the old gas stove; like an alternative family unit, as if this were something they did every morning together. The day was already passing them by so they stood by the living room's window to catch a glimpse of the morning before it disappeared, mugs in hand and arms around each other. 

 

"Who won the game of Risk?" Q asked, eventually, his cheek resting against Bond's warm, but scarred, shoulder. 

 

"It's the taking part that counts." Bond said, passively, plucking Q's empty mug from his hand and placing it next to his on the window-sill. 

 

"I'll assume that means I won." He turned to Bond, allowing a smug smile to touch his lips before he pressed them against those of his agent. Bond returned the kiss, taking control of the pace and asking that they move tantalisingly slowly with nothing more than a hand stroking his Quartermaster's neck. Q obliged, his skin prickling with an electric excitement he was happy to prolong, tracing his fingertips over Bond's back, over every well-trained muscle and passionate scratch and old battle-scar. Their lips met again, any trace of hesitancy gone, not even noticing the taste of alcohol and stale smoke. 

 

Bond's breath caught sharply and his whole body tensed as Q's fingertips brushed the handle of the Walther. He took half a step backwards as Q withdrew his hand, his chestnut eyes locking with the azure ones of his agent. Those brown eyes were hurt, and angry at being mistrusted, but there was also a desperation, a sadness, hidden under all that which perhaps troubled Bond the most - but he was as he was trained, as he was built, and some of those learnt reactions had become reflexes which, under any other circumstance, would keep him alive. He turned his back on Q, running a distracted hand through his hair. 

 

Q took a tentative step forwards, and when Bond made no move to step away he wrapped his arms around the agent's waist and held him tightly. He made no effort to move the weapon that was now digging uncomfortably into his stomach. He placed a kiss on Bond's neck before resting his head against the agent with a sigh, letting him calm down before saying anything at all. 

 

"You know I couldn't fire it, but that's little comfort. I can't change the way you are, and I wouldn't want to. I think I love you, Double-Oh Seven, but I need some trust in return." Bond's head dropped, minutely, in a show of considered surrender. Q stood up straight, taking things as slowly as he could. He kept one hand stroking Bond's arm, gently caressing him into a state of calm, as his other hand hovered over the grip of the PPK. He took a deep breath, bracing himself in case Bond decided to knock him out, before taking hold of the gun and pulling it free of Bond's waistband. He threw it onto the sofa, careful not to hold onto it for too long, before putting his arms back around the agent. "Not everyone is against you."


	18. 18 - Doing Something Together

Prompt Eighteen: Doing Something Together

 

_Put your cards on the table baby,_

_Do I twist do I fold?_

_(Rogue Traders – Voodoo Child)_

 

“You don't play poker, do you?” Bond lifted his head from the book he was reading to look at Q, who was curled up on the other side of the sofa.

 

“Why would I?” Said Q, not looking up from the tablet balanced on his knees. “I'm not allowed in casinos.” Bond frowned as he sat in an inquisitive if demanding silence, until Q finally tilted his head back and sighed. “The House doesn't take kindly to people getting caught on a fake ID _and_ counting cards.” 

 

“You were _caught_ counting cards?” Bond smirked, turning the corner of the page he was on and sitting up from his lounging position across two of the sofa's seats. 

 

“I won more than they were willing to give away.” Q said through pursed lips, his voice constrained, embarrassed at the admission that he was, in fact, fallible. He could sense the mocking raise of Bond's eyebrows even without looking at him. 

 

“Come on,” Bond said, standing up and offering him a hand. “I'll teach you.”

 

*

 

“Does poker not usually involve a table?” The strong, hot afternoon sunlight and the heady smell of new grass and wild-flowers reminded Q of school playing fields, and they were hardly pleasant memories.

 

“Oh, stop complaining.” They had laid a picnic blanket down on one of the flatter spots of the cottage's garden and were sat on either side of it; Q on his knees, ever-vigilant of wasps and mosquitoes, and Bond posed with the natural and unexpected grace of a male model in a middle-class catalogue. There had been an old, faded deck of cards in the cupboard that had yielded the long out of date alcohol and the Risk board; Bond slipped off the elastic band which was holding them together and began shuffling. Q found it near mesmerizing to watch – for hands that were good for firing guns and handling garotte wire should not be so dexterous – and he found himself biting his lip as Bond completed the shuffle and split the deck. 

 

Q listened closely as Bond explained every element of the game – the two pocket cards which formed the player's hand, which they played open for the first game, how to call and raise and check and fold, the three flop cards dealt face up, the turn and the river, which cards to burn and which hand to play – but he watched even more intently, with a smile at his lips, the way his agent explained it, the buried but still noticeable happiness at sharing something he not only enjoyed but prided his skills in. Until this moment they had always been one step divided, with Bond from the charming old world and Q from the brave new one, but this was something that levelled the field, that translated between the two of them so they could truly share themselves in every raise and fold. 

 

Inevitably, Bond took the advantage to win the first open hand whilst Q was still getting to grips with the betting system. They had acquired a large number of beer bottle caps in their short stay which they were using as chips, and although the exact value of them had yet to be agreed upon it was implicitly clear that they could be traded in for favours. They played two more rounds open, the first won by Q – with Bond's prompting – and the second again won by the experienced agent. The first closed, real round was won by Q.

 

“Stop counting.” Bond reshuffled and dealt, before burning the top card and casting the three flop cards onto the table. 

 

“Excuse me?” Q said, incredulous, an eyebrow twitching as he accepted a hand containing a Jack and a King.

 

“I can hear you thinking.” Bond smirked, leaning back on one elbow. “Stop it.” 

 

“Fine...” Q sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. “But only if you do.” 

 

*

 

They played into the twilight hours without noticing the time passing, the piles beer-cap chips and the number of hands won staying roughly equal between them. The conversation had lulled and the atmosphere over the makeshift table had grown stilted; they played mechanically, calling and folding, waiting for the other to say something.

 

"You said you loved me." Bond said, almost conversationally, as he collected the cards and reshuffled the deck. 

 

"I said I thought I did." Q let out a slow sigh, his eyes preferring to watch the skilled hands of the man opposite instead of meeting his eye. "I know 'love' is a four-letter word amongst our kind. I shouldn't have used it." Bond split the deck and dealt; Q accepted his hand but barely registered the cards he was holding. "I care for you deeply, professionally and personally, and those feelings can't possibly be summed up by one word alone." 

 

“Then don't try.” Bond's cold eyes were focused on the cards with strength enough to freeze, and his chips clattered into the pot as he viciously raised Q's bet. Q waited for his frustration to subside before betting on the river. Bond won the hand and Q gathered the cards to deal. He held them loosely, shuffling them clumsily in distracted hands as he met Bond's eye over the top of his glasses. 

 

“This goes back to... Whatever it was before, when we return. No more mentions of love, no more being your guardian angel. I can promise you that.” He split the deck, then changed his mind and nervously began the shuffling process again. 

 

“No more late nights? No more back against the wall, tongue down your throat, hot throbbing -” Q almost dropped the cards before regaining his composure, his face flushing. Bond smirked at him, watching with a playful curiosity as Q dealt them each a hand and then the three flop cards.

 

“I'll play you for those privileges.” Q managed, still red as he picked up his cards. 

 

“I would be a fool to gamble on that.” Bond said, picking up his hand regardless. 

 

“And I would be a fool to let you lose.” Q folded, a smug smile on his face. He lent across the blanket and placed a heavy kiss on Bond's lips; his agent reciprocated, one hand lost in his thick dark hair as the other wrapped around his hips to pull him closer. Their legs entwined as Q knelt over Bond, gently stroking his face with delicate fingers as he slowly enticed the agent's mouth open with his tongue; this was a turn of the tables, a change of play as Q took control, kissing Bond deeply but softly as he let a hand pull free the buttons on the man's shirt. The hand on Q's hip slid around to his fly and within seconds it was undone, the release of pressure building from Q's semi-hard dick drawing a gasp from his lips. His own fingers, finishing their caress of Bond's washboard stomach, tugged at Bond's fly but fumbled as the agent's hand slipped inside his boxers, the first touch making him shudder and go weak; Bond held him close, smothering his cheeks and neck in kisses and letting him pause before beginning to gently stroke Q's length. As Q's hips fell into rhythm and his breathing grew heavy he got Bond's fly undone, hurriedly returning the favours paid to him. They slowed as Bond shifted his weight off his supporting arm, letting Q lean over him. His eyes were bright, and reflected the stars. “You know, I think this is the first time I've had you on your back.” 

 

“Shut up.” Bond bit Q's lip, his hand giving a desperate and demanding tug as Q lent down further, their cocks rubbing and hands clashing as they both clambered towards their climax, Q's hips moving faster and the biting kisses becoming more violent until Q had to fill his mouth with Bond's shirt to stifle his cries as he came, Bond coming soon after but far less shame as he let the night hear him cry out in pleasure. 

 

*

 

They lay wrapped around each other under the starlight, half-dressed, the bottle-cap chips and playing cards scattered across, the air heavy and sweet with night-jasmine. Bond kissed Q's forehead, ignoring the hair stuck to his face with sweat. 

 

“Thank God we have this hillside to ourselves.” Q mused, his voice pleasantly tired as he curled against Bond, a hand resting on his chest.

 

“Thank God I won that hand.” Bond smirked, kissing Q's hair again as they held each other close in the warm night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you can't twist in poker, but what more do you want from me.


	19. 19 - In Formal Wear

Prompt Nineteen: In Formal Wear

 

_It's such a selfish compromise,_

_A self-indulgent, useless bunch of lies_

_(Busted – Why)_

 

As much as the time away had been incredibly enjoyable, Q was surprised by how much he had missed the frenzied, adrenaline-fuelled rush that was MI6. He returned to find his division still in one piece, even if there were a few new unexplained burn marks on the floor and a few components missing from his workstation, but of course he had been missed and was required to double-check the progress of a lot of the junior engineers' projects. When he finally stepped foot in his office he found a manilla folder on his desk, asking him to develop a real-time noise-cancelling system for their bugs and comms system (to be completed ASAP, and to be put before all other commitments). He flicked the folder shut and his shoulders dropped as he muttered something about how they may as well ask him to walk on Mars for how likely it was, before sitting down at his desk with a resigned but determined set to his lips.

 

A few hours later, just as he was taking apart one of the microphones to see if he could improve upon any of the components to make the sounds clearer, there was a knock at his door. It opened before he had any chance to even open his mouth to invite the visitor in. Moneypenny stuck her head around the door to check he was alone before stepping in and approaching his desk, her long curls bouncing as she did so. He sat up straight and carefully put down the pieces of microphone he was holding, so that he didn't accidentally misplace any of them.

 

“Welcome back!” She said brightly, inviting herself into the seat opposite his. She folded one leg over the other, giving the hem of her red dress a firm tug to keep things modest, and rested the dossier she had been holding on her knee. She didn't open it and made no move to hand it over, although it was obviously the reason she had come down to Q Branch. “I take it James came back with you?”

 

“Yes, he did.” The question, whilst not entirely innocent, was meant well so it was the least he could do to answer, but her casual nature and over-familiarity was putting him on edge. He refolded his hands.

 

“Thank you.” Moneypenny said, suddenly, as if the words had been hiding behind her lips waiting to burst out. She smiled, sheepishly, and a touch of pink appeared in her cheeks. “With every mission he goes on, I worry more that he won't come back.”

 

“He can take care of himself in the field.”

 

“You know what I mean.” Q struggled to meet her gaze at that; he did know what she meant for he found himself becoming ever more concerned with the thought that, after the successful completion of an assignment, the great Commander James Bond would just drop off the face of the earth. Moneypenny lent across the desk, taking one of his hands in hers and giving it a brief squeeze, before clearing her throat and passing him the dossier she had in her lap. “MI5 finally got back to us with the information you unofficially uncovered. That small terrorist cell seems to be much bigger than first thought, and has designs on just about every American embassy across the globe.” Q flicked through the pages of the dossier: it was full of photographs and blueprints, some he recognised from the hacked memory stick and others he was unfamiliar with, as well as the mission briefing, although why he had been passed either was a mystery.

 

“And the Americans in London decided to go on ahead with their annual gala?” Q raised a cynical eyebrow at Moneypenny, who pressed her lips into a sardonic grin.

 

“You know the Americans, they always have to put on a show.” She loosely shrugged her shoulders and stood up. “Now, I need to go wrangle our favourite Double-Oh.” She shot him a wink and a wide smile. “Oh, and we're going to need those noise-cancelling mics for this evening's soiree. And if they're not stable, you're coming with us.”

 

*

 

The American Embassy's annual gala was much a show of American wealth and superiority was it was about the promotion of the Special Relationship, and that much was shown by the fact the embassy building itself contained a large ballroom with an adjacent, open bar and smoking room. The decorators had managed to take an incredibly British space, full of the intricacies of imitation-Georgian architecture, and make it unmistakably American; from every outcrop were hung wreaths of crushed red, white and blue velvet, and the Stars and Stripes were displayed proudly on the far wall where they could preside over the entire evening. The ballroom was full of people; politicians exchanged rhetoric about the strength of the Special Relationship, diplomats kept the conversation of the politicians in check, and the heads of various government departments, on both sides, deemed to be important milled around attempting to find their niche in the strange throng of party-goers.

 

MI6 had both an official and unofficial presence at the event, and had sent people accordingly. M was in attendance in lieu of MI6's media figurehead, who was on unspecified business elsewhere but was suspected of wishing to avoid the party, and was in jovial if cuttingly quick conversation with both the heads of MI5 and the CIA. The conversation was clearly not about the threat of terrorism, unless impugning the honour of other intelligence organisations counted as a terrorist act, so Q made a few adjustments to their new comms system via his tablet to tune them out. He had been unable to complete the system in time, at least not to a standard where anyone but him would be able to use it, so he had taken to standing in a quiet corner making slight adjustments to the system and feeling far out of place in his tuxedo. He caught the frequency Moneypenny was using and, after a few more noise-cancelling tweaks, started listening to her conversation.

 

Moneypenny had been caught by the deputy director of the CIA. He had had a little bit too much to drink already and had taken a particular shine to the stunning agent, who was regretting the choice of the low-cut red evening dress which was doing a marvellous job of accentuating her curves. She politely smiled, taking half a step back whenever he lent in too close, as she listened to him talk in grandiose terms about his responsibilities and the size of his arsenal. She was finding it near impossible to get away, and no handy conversation she could excuse herself for.

 

“Eve!” Q called, catching her eye and communicating his move moments before he grabbed her hand. “I lost you for a moment.”

 

“Sweetheart!” She greeted him, planting a chaste but convincing kiss on his lips. “Let me introduce you to General... Uh...” She faltered, covering her faux pas with a bat of her eyelashes at the deputy director. Q cordially offered the man, who seemed like he was a good foot taller than him, his hand; instead of taking it the deputy director of the CIA muttered something about 'damned teasing chicks', the smell of alcohol heavy on his person, before turning with a slight stumble in search of easier prey.

 

“Oh, thank God!” Moneypenny laughed, placing a thankful hand on Q's shoulder. “Usually I can reject people just fine by myself, but one moment you're being hit on by the deputy director of the CIA, and the next someone's been kicked in the shins and you've got an international incident on your hands.”

 

“If you could remember this next time M sets an unreasonable deadline, it would be much appreciated.” He subconsciously glanced over at the man as he said it, aware that their conversation was being fed into the ear of every MI6 agent who was wearing one of their wires.

 

“How about I buy you a drink, instead?” She smiled, taking him buy the arm and steering him towards the open bar.

 

They were both agents on active duty, so after the excitement they retired to the side of the ballroom with glasses of tonic water (with ice, the juice of a lime and a twist; Moneypenny ordered drinks with a confidence reminiscent of Bond's style) in their hands to watch the patrons chat the night away. Q took a moment to retune the comms system so that it was no longer listening to whatever Moneypenny had to say.

 

“You had any luck with that yet?” She inquired, watching him change the values on the screen with uncomprehending fascination.

 

“Not yet...” He found Bond's frequency, and began the noise-cancelling process. The Double-Oh was stalking the length of the ballroom, there both to keep a keen eye on proceedings and to showcase the best that British intelligence could offer, standing very straight and his blue eyes very bright, the cut of his tux barely disguising the raw power lurking beneath.

 

“Checking up on him, huh?” She smiled, gently nudging him as his cheeks grew pink and he struggled to find the words to say 'no'. “Don't worry. I know he's a good tactical choice, out there in the open.” She couldn't help a note of doubt enter her voice as she watched Bond move across the floor towards an American, with an undone bow-tie and a glass of scotch in his hand, who was leaning casually against one of the ceiling's supporting pillars.

 

“Who is that?” Q asked, eyes carefully watching Bond's chosen target. “A possible threat?”

 

“That's Felix Leiter, CIA and definitely on our side...” Moneypenny took a nervous sip of her drink, watching Q closely out of the corner of her eye. It was clear Bond had not told him that Leiter would be there, and she was near certain that that meant Bond had not told him of his complex relationship with the CIA agent.

 

“You never can tell with the CIA.” The name Leiter was familiar, painfully so, and he felt that if he could just have five minutes without the constant chattering in his ear he might remember where he had heard it before. He watched as Bond shook Leiter's hand. It was sharp, almost terse, and even at this distance there was something unmistakable in the slant of Bond's smirk and the narrowing of his eyes. It was Leiter's reaction which forced Q's mind to click, for even for an agent he wore his heart on his sleeves (as most Americans do); the flex of his back and the cock of his hips suggested that he and Bond had done more than work the same missions. Q could suddenly remember reading the name of Felix Leiter in Bond's file, with lots of euphemistic suggestions about the nature of their relationship, and his throat began to constrict at the memory. In a few swift movements of his hand he had switched from Bond's frequency to 008's, who was currently posing as an Irish envoy. Moneypenny, upon noticing the switch, gave him a sympathetic smile and his hand a brief squeeze.

 

*

 

There was an attempt on the American ambassador, and more generally on the embassy building, but it was quashed without a fuss – arrests were made, the offenders quietly yet forcefully escorted from the building and into unmarked MI6 vans to be taken to await their fate. The wave of tension which rippled through all of the agents in attendance seemed to be noticeable only to them – the delegates and diplomats carried on talking, laughing and, as the lights went down, dancing, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. It had been a textbook extraction with no casualties or loss of life, and no chaotic explosions or chases (which, Q mused, was exceptional considering Bond had been one of the active agents, although he was far more involved with causing mayhem of another sort with Agent Leiter: the don't-ask-don't-tell policy was still having trouble being naturalised, so Q felt safe in his assumptions about why the two agents had excused themselves from the party at large).

 

His role as makeshift telephone exchange now redundant, Q had moved from the main ballroom to the veranda it backed onto and the small square of immaculately-kept green garden that somehow found a way to reside in the centre of London. He had never been fond of parties, and of the meaningless small-talk and pleasantries that came with them, and the cool early-autumn air was calming. It was quieter outside, but even out here the euphoria of foiling the plot against the embassy carried with the agents in the know; it was near insufferable, as Q felt so entirely removed from their joy. He had never been one for gloating, and had no particularly strong feelings towards the loss of the American embassy either way, but he could at least be proud in the role that his system had played, but instead that pride and smug satisfaction the only thing he could feel was a burning emptiness. It would be illogical and plain ignorant for him to be upset, for such was the philandering nature of James Bond, but even that thought couldn't banish the tightness in his chest that came from thinking about the loss of his Double-Oh to a CIA agent. He lent against the veranda's enclosing rail, watching the strange shadows the white and gold lighting cast into the night.


	20. 20 - Dancing

Prompt Twenty: Dancing

_'Cause I can read those velvet eyes,_   
_And all I see is lies_   
_(Little Boots – Remedy)_

The guests of the American Embassy began to move back inside as the trademark chill of London in autumn began to sneak into the night air, their tuxedo jackets and silken throws unsuited for the briskness of the evening. Q remained behind, the gin now in his system warming his face and numbing both his limbs and mind into a state of dull, sombre acceptance. Things were as they were, and they could not be any other way, and he knew that in the cold light of day he would be able to see how he could never have been more than a self-destructive notch of the bedpost of his damnable Double-Oh; but no matter what, he couldn't stop it stinging.

The music filtering out through the imposing open French doors into the night began to slow, the violin and piano falling back and allowing the double bass and cello to pick up the familiar, methodical time-signature of a waltz. They had arrived, as they always would at this kind of affair, at the time of the night when relationships between dignitaries were cemented through slightly awkward, and ever so slightly drunken, slow dances. Q sighed, his breath forming the shadow of a cloud in the chilled air, as he turned his eyes to the starlit sky. He had never been one for dancing, formal or otherwise, and there was no one inside he would want to dance with or, more accurately, would want to dance with him. He pressed his lips together as he suppressed the melancholy churning inside of him. He was far too practical and self-respecting to wallow in self-pity.

Despite his want to be left alone with this self-defeating thoughts he let the footsteps behind him approach without stopping them, but without turning to greet them either. The man behind him was unperturbed by the tense silence and Q dipped his head, knowing it to be the last man he could wish to see. He didn't turn to look as Bond lent against the veranda's railing next to him.

“You're like the girl no one invited to the prom.” Bond extended a hand to him, his fingers barely brushing Q's shoulder before the other brushed him off. The agent hesitated for a split second, a motion barely noticeable for anyone not looking for it, before turning his brooding gaze to the sky. “Should I ask?”

“It's nothing you don't already know, and nothing I shouldn't have expected.” Q's tone was bitterly neutral as he pointedly didn't look at his agent.

“Don't be cryptic.” Bond snapped, in a way which forced Q to swallow the apology that tone made him want to form. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, and took a deep breath.

“Agent Leiter.” Q said, bitingly, turning his sharp brown eyes on his agent. For a heartbeat Bond stood perfectly still, the breeze carrying a crescendo of harps from the ballroom behind them.

“You've surely read the file.”

“I need to hear it from you.” Bond exhaled, slowly, and Q's features softened as he watched the face of his agent change, almost become sad.

“You cannot understand the loneliness which comes with this life. It's damnably hard to find even a moment with someone who knows you for what you are, and then there is no guarantee they'll even be alive the next morning. We do what we must to survive.” Q pressed his lips together, the expected but still painful sting of his agent's eventual betrayal beginning to fade. At last Bond turned to look at him, his blue eyes bright in the soft lights. “But now I have something – someone – else to help me survive.” Q smiled, ruefully, and let his agent slide a hand around his waist and pull him into an embrace. Inside, the applause of the crowd died down as the violins picked up the top notes of another Viennese waltz.

“Dance with me.”

“Is that an order?” Bond murmured, his breath in Q's hair sending a shot of electricity through his Quartermaster.

“An obligation on your part, agent.” Q smirked. He put up no resistance, made no complaint over who should lead as Bond put a resolute hand on his hip and interlaced their fingers with his other hand. Q let his fingers absently trace the line where Bond's shirt collar met his neck, the skin growing warmer despite the determined chill of the British autumn night. The rhythm of the dance was near hypnotising as they fell in with the one-two-three of the orchestra, their movements together happening without intervention as they allowed themselves to be lost in each other. There was a change in his agent's eyes, visible only in the strange twilight cast into the night by the lights of the embassy; they had always been like two-way mirrors, allowing him to see the heart of others but never allowing anyone in, only reflecting back what he wanted them to see. Now, as they danced together in the night, bodies pressed as close as possible, they were clear, like a crystal lake whose depths were clearly visible to anyone who took the time to discover them.

Q lent in, letting his lips barely brush those of his agent before kissing him perhaps a bit more forcefully than he had intended; Bond seized upon it, squeezing Q's hip and forcing his mouth open with a fiery passion. For a moment, a heartbeat, they were alone in the world, with nothing but the violin's concerto to ground them. For just that moment everything was perfect, but at the same time they realised the place they were in, the positions they held, and they pulled away at the same time, their hands unwilling to leave the now chaste slow-dance they stood in.

“We should take this elsewhere, Double-Oh Seven.” Q said, breathless, his cheekbones tainted with scarlet evident even in the dark. Bond's hand in his was burning, and he could feel the raw heat of the man even as they broke and Bond led him out through the party to catch a cab.


	21. 21 - The Break-Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sections of this are scenes to be taken in any order, rather than a chronological progression.  
> I won't insult you by telling you where these lyrics are from.

Prompt Twenty-One: The Break-Up

 _Feel the earth move and then,_  
 _Hear my heart burst again_  
 _(Adele – Skyfall_ )

Q had been called to Moneypenny's office without reason. It was a strange little room, less of an office and more of an annexe to M's sprawling expanse of rooms, but that was the least of his worries as he tentatively knocked on her door and invited himself in. The look on her face did little to soothe his concern; her eyes were sorrowful, her smile pained, as she pulled him into a wordless embrace. His stomach gave an unhappy tingle as he realised he hadn't been called to Moneypenny's office at all, but rather he had been summoned to see God himself. The intercom on Moneypenny's desk buzzed insistently. She gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze before opening the connecting door to M's office for him.

“Q.” M was sat behind his desk, and did not bother to stand or offer a hand to shake. “Please, take a seat.” Q had been in M's office many a time before, mostly in custody and then far less as a free man, but it never failed to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The walls were padded, leather-clad, which he supposed was to add to the soundproofing but always served as an unhappy reminder of a room he once enjoyed at Her Majesty's Pleasure. The dark mahogany furnishings and small, secured windows did little to help lift the heavy, oppressive atmosphere, and Q could feel his chest constricting even before M had offered a reason for his summons. “I suppose I shouldn't have to tell you why you are here.” M interlaced his fingers and placed his hands on the desk in front of him, his figure suddenly so much broader so as to make his military credentials painfully obvious.

“But I suppose you're going to anyway.” Said Q, attempting to hide behind a caustic tongue. M lent forwards no more than an inch, and Q felt himself flinch as if the man had raised a hand to him. A tight-lipped smile touched his features and Q's breath became short.

“Double-Oh-Seven.” He said, still smiling sardonically, the name passing his lips like both acid and butter at once. Q said nothing, but his resignation must have shown as he dropped his gaze from M's steely eyes to the blotting pad in front of him. “Whilst I am sure that this all started with the best of intentions, you cannot think it wise to continue along such a path.” Q's head gave the slightest of nods, knowing what would come next. “I will see you lose your promising career before I ever lose my best Double-Oh agent to this lovers' folly. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Q forced his tone to be neutral, as much as his voice wanted to break and his spirit wanted to scream. It had been inevitable, that they would be found out and be told to stop, but he hadn't expected it to come like a punch to the stomach.

“Good boy.” M purred, sitting back in his imposing chair. “Now, I'm sure you have some work to be doing.”

“Yes, sir.” Q said again, more bitter than would usually be proper, as he stood to leave.

On his way out through the walk-in cupboard that was Moneypenny's office she attempted to stop him, her face the picture of maternal concern; he brushed her off without a word, knowing that there was nothing that could be said to undo the mess he had gotten himself into over the past year.

*

Bond had bought her a drink, the standard rate for redirecting some of his paperwork, and as always when drinking with James Bond one drink became one too many and shop talk suddenly became an intimate and personal exchange. She had been powerless to stop the hand on his thigh, the whispering in his ear, the invitation back to her place despite her good conscience and better judgement screaming at her to just go home alone. They had taken a cab back to her apartment complex, exchanging sloppy kisses and fumbling hands in the lift up to her floor, so by the time they collapsed together in the middle of her living room, unable to contain themselves any longer, they were already half-naked.

He was exquisite, every inch of him a god as he thrust his hot, throbbing manhood deep inside of her, rhythm perfect enough to elicit moan after moan. She tilted her hips, wrapping one smooth leg around a muscled thigh, and let the perfect curve of Bond's pelvic bone rub over her clit and, when she thought she could bear it without screaming aloud, she began to move herself in time with his thrusts, the sting of carpet burn on her shoulders and buttocks only adding to her pleasure. Bond moaned her name between the bites and kisses to every inch of her he could reach, her pert nipples only inviting his mouth to them; at the first bite and pull she thought she might come but she bit back the scream and calmed herself down, for nothing could be as sweet as the simultaneous orgasm she was praying for. Bond was thrusting faster now, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps as they both let go in an eruption of pleasure; Eve screamed and held onto him as tightly as she could as pleasure like none she had ever known racked her body, her hands clasping Bond's rippling back lest she slip from reality into someplace else.

They lay together, nude, breathless, in the middle of her living room. She could feel her face glowing, her limbs numb from the shock of the orgasm, and yet there was an unpleasantness building in her stomach. This wasn't right; it had never been right, relations between staff were strictly forbidden, especially when they involved an active field agent, but her conscience was uneasy for entirely different reasons. She was a woman of integrity, of dignity, and in one slip of self-control she felt as if she had lost both; she was the other woman in Bond's relationship with his Quartermaster, and it felt as if the guilt could throttle her there and then.

“We have to stop this.” She ran her long fingers through his hair, unable to keep the apology out of her voice.

“Why?” Bond muttered through the Martini haze. Moneypenny punched him in his rock-hard stomach, knowing the agent would hardly feel it but lacking the words to express herself any other way. “Q understands that I can't be without you.” Moneypenny pulled away from the agent, unable to contain her disgust with the man any longer. She pulled a quilt from the armchair behind her and wrapped it around her naked form.

“You're heartless.” Bond simply looked at her, the words meaningless to a man so used to hearing them. She sighed, shifting her weight so she could look him in the eye. “It's clichéd, I know, but it's me or him.” She swallowed, her voice cracking as she struggled to stop her eyes growing wet. “And I think it should be him.”

*

Q sat at his desk in an unmoving silence, his glasses balanced on his keyboard and his hands over his eyes. There had to be a reason why it hurt so much. Until he had met James Bond he had thought that he might be lacking a heart, little did he know how much it could break or how much it would hurt when it did. He had never felt the way he felt about Bond about anyone before, and whilst it was true he was still young everyone had tales of teenage love lost. He had never loved anyone until he had loved James Bond. And that was the problem, but knowing the problem didn't help him unless he knew how to solve it. And there was no solving a problem like James Bond.

He lent back in his chair, sighing, observing his fuzzy computer screen without really seeing it. It wasn't the fact he loved James Bond that was the problem, for he could have loved anyone and not have it cause him this much heartache, but rather James Bond himself. It was because Double-Oh-Seven was Double-Oh-Seven that he was in so much trouble. It wasn't just M's less than hollow threats that got to him, either – he was sick of the Q Branch break-room falling silent whenever he walked into it, of the whispers that followed him throughout the entirety of MI6. He was the man on James Bond's arm, a show-piece for people to point at and exchange gossip about. The only way he could stop that was to stop being the pretty plaything of the great James Bond.

A tear slipped down his cheek at that thought, and he slapped a hand to his face in an effort to hide it from anyone who may be secretly watching. He tried to laugh at his stupidity, his childlike infatuation with Bond and the sadness caused by being separate to him, but that only made him cry more. He grabbed a tissue from the box on his desk, there from the hayfever season, and buried his face in it. It was shameful that someone as brilliant as him should fall prey to emotions as asinine as love, and in that moment he realised that the problem was not that he was in love with James Bond, or even James Bond himself, but rather that he was responsible for an agent he could no longer view as an object, a pawn in the field, but someone whom he loved. He could no longer guarantee that he would not do something stupid in the heat of the moment, to save James Bond or to harm him, and that meant he could no longer do the one thing he wanted. He could no longer keep Bond alive. He dried his eyes and threw the tissue resolutely in the bin. He would have to lose James Bond in order to save him.

*

Bond took another shot of cheap whiskey as his phone rang again. Despite knowing who it would be he picked it up, if only to hang up on them. He cursed Eve Moneypenny as he forwent the glass and took a pull of whiskey straight from the bottle – she had stirred his morals into action, and that was the last thing he needed when Felix Leiter was in town. If there were ever two people made for each other it was him and Felix, his Quartermaster be damned, but all he could bring himself to do was decline Felix's calls.

He was, or had been, a man who could entertain many lovers at once, without them ever finding out and certainly without troublesome things like conscience or emotions getting in the way of things, but ever since Eve had told him he had to choose he had been unable to get away from the fact that he perhaps did have more feelings than he had expected to for his Quartermaster. He laughed to himself, taking another pull from the whiskey bottle; trust Moneypenny to turn out to be the angel on his shoulder.

Even as he cursed her he was thanking her, for she had drawn something to his attention by making the whole situation painful to think about. If he did have feelings for Q, which he must do to feel like this, then he knew where it would eventually lead. This was a road he had travelled one too many times before, the worst with Vesper, but should anything happen to upset the balance between him and Q he knew just how bad the fallout would be. He wasn't sure he would survive it, and that scared him more than there were words for. He picked up his phone, hanging up yet again on the insistent Agent Leiter, before dialling Q.

*

Both Bond and Q both needed to desperately speak to each other, so they arranged to meet as soon as they could. Q chose the location, a small café in Covent Garden – neutral ground so as neither party felt threatened – and the air was tense even before he stood to hug Bond in greeting. They sat in silence for a short while, measuring the magnitude of the quiet between them, before either of them spoke.

“We need to talk.” Said Bond, more to his cup of coffee than to the man opposite him.

“I'm well aware.” Q sighed, a mix of sadness and regret marking his features. “I think we both know what about.”

“We can't go on like this.” Bond spoke carefully, his blue eyes expressionless but his tone more than hoping that Q might stop him with a kiss and tell him that they could, that everything would work out, but he knew it to be impossible.

“I know.” Q reached out, taking Bond's hand in one of his own. “And that's okay. It's for the best.”


	22. 22 - In Battle

Prompt Twenty-Two: In Battle

 

_So I'll start the revolution from my bed,_

_'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head_

_(Oasis – Don't Look Back in Anger)_

 

Q stood behind his desk, the pain in his back gone in the rush of adrenaline through his system, his hands spread across three keyboards and his eyes across five screens. The mission was comparatively simple, find and retrieve an agent taken captive before he could be tortured into talking, but the amount of surveillance and potential threat presented by the enemy had moved mission HQ to Q-Branch. M was pacing incessantly, like a caged panther, barking orders to each tendril of the mission's activity whilst Tanner alternated between relaying instructions and nervously watching Q's screens over his shoulder. They were tense, the air like lightening, as they calculated and strategized.

 

Q's nerves were on fire even before he had come to realise the delicacy of the situation; it was the first time he had been assigned to be Bond's active handler since they had decided to part ways and, given M's notorious sadistic streak, it can't have been by accident that the mission chosen for him to shepherd Bond through was such a public one. Perhaps he was to be made an example of, perhaps worse, but he was more concerned about how Bond might behave given the circumstances.

 

Q watched his agent dart across two of his screens, gun in hand, with bated breath as Bond rounded a blind corner. The other side of it was mercifully clear and Q forced himself to breathe slowly, to keep his clarity and objectivity about what was ahead. Tanner lent over his shoulder and cleared his throat.

 

“There are hostiles in the next room.” He said, as calm as still water, before stepping back to allow Q the space he needed to act.

 

“007 the room up ahead is live, repeat, the room is live.” Bond was not good enough to acknowledge the information, but his slight pause was enough for Q to know that he had been heard. Tanner appeared at his shoulder again, a touch more urgency in his otherwise subtly plain voice.

 

“Q, we have reason to believe the agent is in the room up ahead. Do not engage. We need to keep it calm.”

 

“Yes, Q, keep it calm.” M drawled from somewhere behind him, with Q not bothering to acknowledge him. “I hope you don't struggle to control that agent of yours.” Q set his jaw and kept his voice as level as possible.

 

“Agent Kelly is in the next room. Hold your fire.” Q saw Bond raise his arm a second before he head the crack of the shot in his ear, then saw the muzzle flash as the second shot rang out through his headset. Plaster fell from the wall Bond had fired into, and the voices in the next room fell suspiciously silent.

 

“What was that?” M demanded, joining Tanner at Q's shoulder.

 

“ _Double-Oh-Seven_. Which part of _hold your fire_ didn't reach that thick skull of yours?” He smacked his fist into his table in frustration, making his middle keyboard jump and tea spill from his Scrabble mug.

 

“You must learn to let loose, Q.” Bond readjusted his blazer and trained his gun on the door in front of him as the room beyond filled with the scrambles of people rushing for their weapons.

 

“This really isn't the time to -”

 

“ _Trust me on this_.” Bond said, through gritted teeth, as the door in front of him opened and he picked the point-man off with deadly precision.


	23. 23 - Arguing

Prompt Twenty-Three: Arguing

 

_You can't expect me to be fine,_

_I don't expect you to care_

_(Maroon 5 feat. Wiz Khalifa – Payphone)_

 

The chain of command at MI6 was, at least where the Double Ohs were concerned, up for much interpretation. It was certainly so for one James Bond, who took himself to be an exception to the rulebook and still ,manage to be the best damn agent the section had ever seen, much to the infuriation of everyone he had to work with. There was still no escaping the fact that he had, most recently, ignored a direct order from the one person that mattered. Immediately after his return, M had had him hauled to his office. 

 

"What exactly do you think you are playing at, Double-Oh-Seven?" Bond clenched his jaw and said nothing, knowing that no response would be accepted. M barely gave him time to draw breath before continuing. "You compromised the mission, not to mention the safety of your supporting agents, and for what? To make a point? You're a professional, Bond, I expect you to act like one, not like some petulant child." 

 

"Sir," Bond said, struggling to keep his voice neutral "The situation between us -"

 

"I care not for any little spat you've had!" Roared M, turning on Bond like a tiger on a mouse. "You will resolve this, do you understand? Now get out of my sight."

 

*

 

A thunder cloud had been following Q ever since he had lost control of his agent. It had shown in his work; he had been making mistakes, and he never made mistakes, and he had been uncharacteristically short with his staff. He had even thrown a pile of Mark Turner's miscalculations on the floor. He couldn't remember a time he had felt so angry, so wronged, and worse the entirety of his department knew of it. They were a crowd of horrible gossips, like children on a playground waiting to unseat the teacher from their perceived throne. Appearing fallible to them could prove fatal to his career. That was if Bond and his ever-worsening relationship with the man hadn't managed that already. 

 

 _Speak of the Devil and he shall come_ , Q thought, as Bond sauntered into Q Branch trying to maintain his cold exterior. More whispers than usual followed him as he made his way over to the desk Q was standing behind. 

 

"I have nothing to say to you, 007." Q said, curtly, not looking up. "Now, if you don't mind, all unauthorized personnel should -"

 

"Q," Bond interrupted him, a hand lightly touching his Quartermaster's shoulder "I came to apologize." 

 

"Do you not think it's a little bit late for that?" Q sighed through gritted teeth, pushing the hand away. Bond shifted his weight and pressed his lips together. 

 

“When would you have me do it? I got back from the mission only hours ago!” 

 

“When you got back is irrelevant, I would never have had it happen!” Q's voice was steadily rising, ringing out through the department. “You disobeyed a direct order!” 

 

“I made a mistake.” Bond said, simply, voice low and fists clenched.

 

“You're damn right you did!” Q ran a hand through his hair, a heavy breath escaping his lungs. “You're impossible.”

 

“As if it's any easier working with you.” Bond folded his arms, blue eyes casting a sideways glance at the gathering members of Q-Branch who scattered at his gaze and tried to look busy. “You demand more from me than even M.”

 

“If I demand more it's because I know you can take it!” Q slammed a hand onto the desk; a pencil fell and clattered to the floor, outlining the silence. “And I expect you to live up to those expectations.”

 

“I'm trying.”

 

“Then try harder!” Q's voice broke, his hands shaking beyond control. “You're lucky you're not dead! Do you know what that was like to watch?” Q could feel his whole body trembling. Now he knew why the dark cloud had been following him, it was not his loss of authority or Bond's blatant arrogance, it was the fear of losing the man he had grown so close to through that man's own stupidity. He let Bond pull him close, inhaling the scent of stale smoke mixed with the man's expensive aftershave. 

 

“I know.” Bond whispered in his ear, breath playing in his hair. “And I will. I promise you, it'll get better from now on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I felt this and the previous chapter or so have been a bit weaker. Sorry about that.  
> And sorry for the sporadic updates. '30 days' is more a guideline than a rule, apparently.


	24. 24 - Making Up Afterwards

Prompt Twenty-Four: Making Up Afterwards

 

_Whether you are sweet or cruel,_

_I'm gonna love you either way_

_(Lena – Satellite)_

 

The silk sheets, champagne on ice, were far more than enough to make recompense for the ruffling of feathers that had occurred earlier during the day, even if they hadn't been preceded by a candlelit steak dinner for two and cocktails on the Embankment.

 

“How are you affording all this?” Q asked, eyes flitting to the unopened champagne, between gasping breaths.

 

“Stop thinking.” Bond growled in his ear, biting his neck to punctuate the point. Q grabbed a handful of silk sheeting, back of his mind tabulating how much they would owe the hotel if that bite got blood on their precious bed-linen, front of his mind filled with nothing but white hot pleasure at the teeth against his skin. His hands slipped over Bond's neck-tie, fingers making light work of the half-Windsor holding it around the man's neck before he threw it aside to start unbuttoning the man's shirt. His skin, marred though it was by battle scars, was perfect, was beautiful, and Q's hands stopped just short of Bond's belt as he absorbed every part of the man before him. “What is it?” Bond took one of his hands, still pinning him to the bed with the other.

 

“Absolutely nothing.” Q smiled at him, pleased at the frustration in his agent's face. “Go slower.”

 

Bond obliged, gently placing his lips over Q's already kiss-bruised mouth, his tongue prising open Q's jaw to taste the man beneath him. He moved his kisses southwards, messy and impatient lips over the bite-mark he had previously left before moving to Q's collarbone, the gentle sucking pressure eliciting a gasp from his Quartermaster, before those gasps turned to moans as the kisses moved over the man's nipples, teeth just catching the soft, rosy flesh. Bond let his kisses trail even further southwards, over Q's belly-button, before sitting back on his knees. He locked eyes with Q, a lazy hand tracing circles over the man's knee.

 

“Slow enough for you?”

 

Q resisted throwing one of the pillows behind him, instead taking to leaning back against them as the warm knot in the pit of his stomach began to form an uncomfortable bulge in his chinos. “Slow enough.” His agent smirked at him before lowering himself down on one elbow, over his Quartermaster, so their bodies were mere centimetres apart as their hands tangled and fumbled with the belt buckles and zips keeping their flesh from touching. Suddenly they were free, eyes locked as their cocks rubbed, breath caught in their throats as they let the pureness of the moment was over them.

 

That clarity was gone as suddenly as it had come, and Bond was slicking his cock with the hotel's complimentary lotion whilst Q kissed him, viciously, letting pleading nothingnesses slip from his lips in between. His legs slipped apart as Bond ran a hand up his thigh, his fingers soft from the lotion, before he put a hand either side of Q's shoulders. Q wrapped his arms around Bond as his agent plunged deep inside of him, the animal forcefulness making Q draw breath as his fingernails carved deep scratches into Bond's back. Bond arched away from him with every thrust before pulling him close again with one arm, the other barely supporting the both of them as it shook with pleasure. Q cried out, voice muffled by Bond's shoulder as Bond snarled and growled in his ear, each moving towards the other's climax with every arching of back and thrusting of hips. Bond came first, his lust and greed in the bedroom making for no other outcome, and he suppressed his cries by biting deep into Q's shoulder, enough to break skin – the brilliance of the pain pushed Q over the edge, a single tear falling down his cheek as be buried his forehead in the crook of Bond's neck, his whole body shaking with the force of the orgasm. They fell apart, breathless and spent, onto their own sides of the bed, before crawling back together just to feel the closeness of another human being.

 

“Are we good?” Bond murmured into Q's hair, letting his lungs fill with the perfumed, slightly salted scent of the other man's hair.

 

“We're more than that.” Q said, tilting his head back to place a tender kiss on Bond's lips before letting the man slip off to the solitude of the shower.

 

*

 

They lay together, entwined, a glass of iced champagne each – the champagne still surprisingly cold since the ice had long ago melted – slowly draining the bottle. Q felt pleasantly tired, emotionally charged and physically drained, with a spreading warmth in his body from the alcohol. If Bond felt anything he didn't outwardly show it, but Q could tell he was content; it was in the laxness of his hands, in the softness of his jaw. He drained his glass and refilled the pair of them.

 

“I take it this never happened?” Bond asked, instinctively drawing Q a little closer with the arm around his shoulders.

 

“Hm.” Q said, in agreement, further moving into the curve of Bond's body. He pushed his hair, wet from the shower, out of his eyes with the back of his hand, before taking another sip of champagne. “Officially, this never happened. Our relationship is purely professional.”

 

“And outside of professionalism?”

 

“Well,” Q purred, raising his head to gently nip at Bond's earlobe. “What they don't know won't hurt them.”

 

“And you're assured that they won't know?”

 

“Have I ever given you cause to doubt me, Double-Oh-Seven?” Q placed kisses on his cheekbone, on his ear, moving down towards his jaw.

 

“I suppose not.” Bond smirked, lifting his Quartermaster's head by his chin and kissing him harshly on the lips. “You are amazing.”

 

“I know.”


	25. 25 - The Jealous Streak

Prompt Twenty-Five: The Jealous Streak

 

_Don't touch me, please,_

_I cannot stand the way you tease_

_(Soft Cell – Tainted Love)_

 

There was something in the relationship between the great James Bond and the charming Eve Moneypenny that Q felt he would never understand. It was in the small glances between them, the light touches and the smiles they shared; it came from more than just being on missions together, for it was more than the working relationship between two agents which they shared. Bond had promised him he would talk to Moneypenny about standing down her efforts. Moneypenny had taken him for a drink and attempted to explain the situation, but had only made him feel worse. He didn't like to think himself an insecure man, but that was precisely how he was feeling.

 

To be more accurate, he envied the relationship they had. He envied how they could express their relationship in the office, how they could exchange a wealth of information in just a wink or a wry half-smile. It pushed him out, made him feel as if he were worthless, as if what he shared with James Bond meant nothing and could never compare to what Bond shared to Eve Moneypenny.

 

He watched them on his screen – he had hacked the CCTV cameras on the streets of Moscow, where the pair were currently undercover on a mission. It was not his assignment to observe, yet he still felt compelled to watch the pair move purposefully across his screens. They moved in unison, like a perfectly designed unit, and it made his heart sink that he would never be able to share in Bond's field missions the same way another field agent would. He was confined, for the most part, to within the walls of Q-Branch, where he was out of sight and out of mind of his romantically roaming agent and his partner in crime.

 

She pecked him lightly on the cheek. It wasn't an untoward motion, their cover involved being a young couple honeymooning in Eastern Europe, but it still made his stomach knot and his heart heavy. They held hands as they appeared to talk about the architecture and tourist-like photographs of each other – no doubt they were monitoring the building's surveillance – and they way they seemed so natural with each other made Q think about the validity of his relationship with Bond. Were they meant to be? Or was everything that was keeping them apart designed in just that way because they were only going to be disastrous together? He sighed and rested his head in his hands as he watched them walk arm-in-arm out of the frame.

 

A few clicks later and they were back in view. He didn't mistrust Bond, on the contrary he had previously and would undoubtedly in the future trust the man with his life, and nor did he have any feelings of hostility towards Moneypenny. They were both as they had always been, albeit scaled back – he was near certain they were no longer sleeping together – only now the way he felt about them when they were together was different. He envied how they understood each other, the history that they had and the fact that, no matter what, Eve would always be James' first port of call if he were ever in difficulty. With a few more clicks, he had turned the screen off.

 

*

 

He met Bond at the cottage in the Lakes, as he always did following a mission. It was becoming a lot easier for him to take the time off, and with a few forged documents no one questioned the legitimacy of his leave or the reasons for it. He knew that he needed to speak to Bond about how he felt, about how awful it made him feel to see him be around Moneypenny, but he knew he would have to tread softly so as not to startle the agent with too much talk of exclusivity or commitment.

 

They lay on the cottage's small sofa together in a comfortable silence, drinking Peroni straight from the bottle, Bond smoking his second Marlboro of the trip (Q had, for the most part, convinced him to cut down, but had also been told that nagging was not an attractive quality). Q sat himself upright, leaning back away from Bond so that he could catch Bond's startlingly blue eyes with his own.

 

“I need to talk to you about something.”

 

“I think I know what.” Said Bond, taking one last, long drag off the cigarette and dropping the butt into an empty Peroni bottle. “Eve, right?” Q couldn't help but smile, a little bit relieved that he hadn't had to raise the subject himself. “You know there's nothing between us any longer, don't you?”

 

“Of course, I trust you.” He took Bond's hand in one of his own and interlaced their fingers. “But that's not what's troubling me. I'm jealous of the relationship you have with her – not any past intimate relationships, but of your friendship. I'm just...” He sighed, ducking his head as he realised how stupid the words sounded now they were coming from his mouth aloud “I'm just worried that you'll never view me as a friend like you view her as one.”

 

Bond said nothing, instead putting down his beer bottle on the small, worn coffee table and sliding up to Q, placing his strong and defined arms around him tightly. Q let himself be drawn into the awkward hold, and let the agent breathe in the scent of his hair and rub his back for a moment. “Please say something.” He said, eventually, struggling to keep his voice level. “I need to hear it.”

 

“I view you as my everything.” Said Bond, quietly, and with the same struggle with which the agent admitted anything of a private and intimate nature. “You're a deeply trusted handler, my lover, and-” Bond paused, swallowed, trying with great effort to form the words in his mouth “And my friend.”


	26. 26 - Getting Married

Prompt Twenty-Six: Getting Married

 

_I'll play your game,_

_I'll change my last name,_

_I'll walk the walk of shame_

_(Krista Siegfrids – Marry Me)_

 

“We should get married.” Q said, tousled head in Bond's lap as they lay together on the cottage's sofa. He could feel the agent tense beneath him so he let a smile slide across his lips. “I was _joking_ , Double-Oh-” Bond lent over and put a finger over his mouth, before putting a hand on his shoulder and making him sit up. The agent silently put a hand into his pocket and pulled out a tiny, black velvet box.

 

“It's the ring I had to wear in Moscow.” He offered in explanation, the box sitting innocently in his hand. Q took it, hand shaking slightly as he opened it. He recognised it immediately – he had watched the hand wearing it cupping Moneypenny's cheek on the CCTV feed not a day before.

 

“You were meant to give this back.” Q said weakly, hands still shaking and all traces of the smile gone from his face. He was shellshocked; he had expected his agent to storm out at the very mention of the word 'marriage', not to produce a ring and present it to him. The colour had begun to drain from his face. He was regretting mentioning anything at all. He loved his bloody James Bond, every last piece of his being, but to be _married_ , to be legally defined as half of a whole...

 

“For God's sake.” Bond snatched the ring back from Q's still open palms. “If it'll make you happy, I'll give it back. I thought I would keep it and give it to you, as a gesture of... Forget it.” Bond put the ring back in his pocket and stood up, a touch of red tinting his high cheekbones. “It was a flight of fancy.” He said, voice lofty as he waved a hand to punctuate his point. He moved towards the door of the cottage. “A foolish display...” His hand was on the handle. Q leapt from the sofa and grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand away from the door's handle.

 

“Wait.” Q wet his lips as he held tightly onto his agent. Bond was holding his breath as he watched his Quartermaster struggle with his words. “I-I will. Marry you, I mean. If that's what you want.”

 

Bond said nothing but embraced Q tightly, kissing him on the cheek. “I do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So they're not getting married, per se, but this is the closest I could get whilst keeping the tone consistent. Who wants a soppy, sloppy wedding anyway.


	27. 27 - One of Their Birthdays'

Prompt Twenty-Seven: One of Their Birthday's

 

_Nothing they can do can stop this army of two_

_We're marching into the future, yeah, it's me and you_

_(Olly Murs – Army of Two)_

 

The ring had felt heavy on his hand for perhaps only a day, but if Q had been carrying an extra pound then Bond had been carrying a ton; the man had all but disappeared after they had signed the paperwork at one of London's registry offices, under false identities of course, and Q had let him. He had grown used to Bond's need for space, for his inability to cope with the pressures of commitment, and knew it was for the best if he just let the man be until he was ready to return on his own terms. Yet the man could not stay invisible forever, and eventually the office called him back in for another assignment. It was unfortunate that M gave no regard to the date.

 

Q had bought him a ring on the day of their civil partnership, and it brought a smile to the corners of his mouth to see it on Bond's left hand as he sauntered into Q Branch. He was loose, easy, casual to a fault in his dark blue cotton suit, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Q breathed an internal sigh of relief. That was how they had agreed to play it, and it was good to see no residual tenseness in his agent, in his partner. He stuck his hand into his desk drawer to fish out a wrapped parcel as Bond approached.

 

“Good morning, Double-Oh-Seven.” He smirked, his fingers drumming against the package in his lap. Bond pursed his lips and casually flipped through one of the notebooks on the desk, his ring flashing under the fluorescent lights.

 

“Nothing 'good' about it, my dear. No man should be shipped off to Libya on his birthday.”

 

“M does have a sense of timing, doesn't he?” Q smiled sympathetically, putting the box on the desk. It was approximately a foot by a half, wrapped in understated brown post-master's paper. “I didn't want to cause too much of a fuss.” He offered in explanation. Bond's face lightened; Q wouldn't have liked to ask, but he suspected it might have been the first time in his adult life that anyone had bought him anything for his birthday. “Of course, you have the standard bottle of Glen Livet and pair of socks waiting for you at your apartment, but given your current mission I thought I should get you something a little more... practical.”

 

Bond lifted the package, gingerly feeling its weight. He slid a finger under the top fold of paper, gently pulling the tape free without tearing the paper at all. The man's anticipation was beautiful to watch. He pulled the paper free, folding it one-handed and placing it on the desk before considering the hard, black card box in his hands. He opened it, and on the crushed black velvet inside lay a HK 4 pistol, the grip carved with surprisingly elegant harsh, modern lines.

 

“I'm not much of an artist.” Said Q, a hint of nerves in his voice. “But the grip is hand-carved. So be careful with it.” He smirked, his eyes bright as he watched the shock play out over Bond's face and the lump form in his throat. He swallowed it down as he picked up the gun, checking its weight and sights.

 

“It's perfect.” He muttered, his voice thick from the tears he had swallowed. “I'd kiss you...”

 

“Later.” Q promised, putting the paper in the bin. “Now get out, you have a flight to Libya to catch.”


	28. 28 - Doing Something Ridiculous

Prompt Twenty-Eight: Doing Something Ridiculous

 

_But everybody knows it's all about the things_

_Which get stuck inside of your head_

_(Bright Eyes – Sunrise Sunset)_

 

Q owned two chess sets. One he had owned since he was a child and was still in immaculate condition, for Q was the kind of child who did not treat his toys like toys but rather as objects of antiquity, which lived in the hand-carved wooden box his grandfather had made for him and was currently locked away in the cottage's cupboard under the stairs. The other one was not made of wood but rather entirely of glass, but instead of glass pieces the pieces were glasses, tiny half-measure shot glasses with a symbol depicting the piece etched onto the front of it. He had no idea how he had come into possession of it – he was aware of a time at university before he owned it, but one day it had appeared in his flat and he had never dared part with it. He had had a lot of fun playing against people less skilled than him to get them drunk, and more skilled than him to lower his inhibitions. He was not having fun playing it at all that night. 

 

There was a stack of glasses next to Bond, for his style of play was at least aggressive if nothing more, and the man sat on the floor of the cottage's small living room like a caged lion as he considered his next move. Q, his head a touch hazy from the strength of the whiskey, watched him. Bond's brow furrowed and a hand brushed his lips as he thought, but the man was totally silent. Had this been any other game of drink-chess he would have been jokingly asking Q for tactical tips, and offering poor ones in return. They would have chatted mindlessly about work, about the new intern in Q Branch who managed to lose his eyebrows or about the bomb technician who couldn't tell his arse from his elbow, about their lives, about the things that interested them. This game was silent. Bond pushed a bishop forwards, the glass scraping uncomfortably against the stained-glass board. 

 

Q lent forwards over the board, forcing his mind to concentrate on the game rather than on the man across from him. The odds were overwhelmingly in his favour, and unless he did something particularly stupid then the game was his. Normally the realisation that he could mate in four moves would have a mischievous grin crossing his face, causing Bond to threaten to pin him to the floor and forfeit the game. This time he couldn't even convince the corners of his mouth to twitch. A picked a piece at random, a pawn, and moved it forwards. Now it was a mate in ten, but it hardly mattered. He lent back against the sofa, stopping a sigh from escaping his lips before it was too late. 

 

Bond's bright blue eyes had been watching him intensely, but the fire behind them had gone. Bond took the pawn with his bishop and Q obligingly downed the shot, adding the glass to the more modest stack besides him. The whiskey, a normally sweet blend with honey tones, burnt his throat and he coughed. Bond inclined his head slightly but did not rush to his aid. Q wiped a tear from his eye and gestured for Bond to hurry up and make his move. 

 

After considering the board for what seemed like an age, Bond shifted his weight to his other side and put his left hand out over his queen. The ring on his finger caught the light from the table lamp and glittered in the soft pastel glow. Q found his lips pursing and his stomach clenching at the look, for it was not a friendly glitter, more of a sinister glint. He was married to a killer. And no one else but him knew. And in that moment something clicked, something that had been clawing at his mind like a dark cloud at an obliviously bright sky; they would never work. It wasn't meant to work, the Powers that Be had done what they could to keep this killer and this criminal apart but they had defied them, but now he could feel it beginning to crack. They were beginning to fall apart. He drew his knees up into his stomach as Bond changed his mind, and instead jumped his other bishop with a knight to better defend his king. He looked up, as if expecting some chiding remark, but instead saw the paleness of Q's face in the flicking light of the candles and table lamps. 

 

“Are you alright?” He asked, in a tone somewhere between indifference and despair. 

 

“I'm fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed this one from the original, which was acting more as a placeholder whilst I decided how I wanted to finish this venture off. The original will not be available again. I'd apologise for this, but it was terrible.
> 
> This was also the best I could do for this prompt whilst still taking it in the direction I wanted to. Drink-chess is ridiculous, right?


	29. 29 - Doing Something Sweet

Prompt Twenty-Nine: Doing Something Sweet

 

_And it's all in the smiles,_

_And the acts of denial,_

_And occasional Freudian slips_

_(Alice Grey – Three in the Bed)_

 

The sunlight played across the covers of the bed in the cottage in the Lakes. Bond had gone out on his run, like he did every morning, and had brought back the Sunday Telegraph for Q who had failed to make it much further than the bathroom that morning. Now they were both back under the covers, Bond sleeping as he often did when he knew Q was awake to watch over him, and Q with the paper opened in his lap and a pen in his hand. He was chewing the end of it absent-mindedly as he narrowed his eyes at the paper in front of him. For all of his cleverness, all of his mental agility, he had a blind-spot for words. He could use them just fine, his writing was as fluid as any modern-day Shakespeare could hope to have, but manipulating them was another matter, and crosswords seemed to give him particular difficulty. He still did them, because he always strived to challenge himself in every aspect of his life, so he sat against the headrest, paper opened in his lap and pen in his mouth as he studied the clues.

 

He had managed to successfully complete about half of it, and was glad that the Telegraph didn't publish their answers at the bottom of the page else his frustration would cause him to look. He didn't like to not be the best there was to be at something, and the thought of grannies finishing the crossword in a fifteen minute break from their knitting was infuriating. A noise partway between a sigh and a growl escaped his lips as he realised 'opinionated' was five letters longer than the word he needed. Next to him Bond stretched out, his chest visible and nude above the sheets. Q looked down at him, a smile touching his face but not his heart. One eye opened to look at him.

 

“Frustrated, are we?” Bond yawned, a grin on his face. Watching Q struggle with the Sunday crossword was one of his favourite past-times, and the grin on his face had only grown more spiteful as their weeks together had gone on.

 

“Be quiet.” Q answered, putting the pen back in his mouth for another thoughtful chew. Bond propped himself up on his elbow, the sheets sliding down his washboard abs to his belly button, and looked at the paper.

 

“Fifteen across is 'opined'.” Bond said, the smile on his face not shifting and certainly not kind. Q grit his teeth and begrudgingly filled in the blank squares.

 

“How are _you_ so good at this?” He hissed, crossing clue fifteen off the list down the side. Bond shrugged the shoulder he wasn't leaning on and laid back down.

 

The circle they lived in was ever continuing. They would leave their rings at the cottage in the Lakes to go to work. Bond would be sent away to some godforsaken corner of the earth where Q would have to watch him continually brush with death. He would come back, broken, damaged, and they would escape to the cottage in the Lakes as a way of repairing themselves. They had become comfortable. The bite had gone. Sex no longer left tooth and claw marks, conversation lacked its edge. For the most dangerous man in the world, Bond was particularly vanilla. And now there was no challenge in their relationship, Q's mind grew bored. They had become too good at keeping the secret, and too comfortable in the impenetrable nature of their fortress; now they could be certain no one would batter down the doors of the cottage demanding they stop, the thrill of it all had gone. They could not be because it would not work, and not because they were a victim of their circumstances, no, but because once the bite had softened and the bruises had faded there was nothing left.

 

“Twenty down is 'stagnate'.” Bond said, after he hadn't heard Q's pen make a mark for over five minutes. Q took the pen out of his mouth.

 

“Are you sure?” He asked, eyes not even scanning the clue list.

 

“Perhaps it was twenty-one across.”

 

“Perhaps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Bond and Q doing crosswords in bed together is, in essence, sweet. But this isn't headed for a happy ending, folks, so I couldn't make it too saccharine.


	30. 30 - Tying Up The Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here it is, the very last chapter. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me throughout this little indulgence, and thank you to everyone who read even just a little bit of it. Your kudos and comments mean everything.

Prompt Thirty: Tying Up The Ends

 

_I want to learn such simple things,_

_No politics, no history,_

_So what I want and what I need,_

_Can finally be the same_

_(Bright Eyes – I Believe in Symmetry)_

 

He was getting used to the empty conversation, the wistful glances, the stillness of the nights and the sting in his heart after all the bitter sex. There was no tenderness in their fingertips, no heat in the kisses they shared. He couldn't remember the last time he had been thrown against a wall or down onto a bed in the heat of passion, or the last time blood had been drawn as they clawed at each other for closeness. Some might argue that was a good thing. He let a sigh escape his lips as he typed out another few lines of code. He thought he should be happy.

 

*

 

Bond had started drinking again, heavily, and alone. He sat in his flat with a cigarette between his lips, the glass of vodka barely in his lax hand, contemplating the wedding ring on the table. He couldn't remember when he had taken it off, only that it had been burning his finger when he did so. It glinted at him, catching all the light in the twilight that filled the flat, making his stomach twist.

 

He was nothing if not his reputation and he was notorious for playing the field; he had done so for sex and for money, for information, for friends-with-benefits. He had been in and out of love more times than he could count. But never had he felt like this. Never had something burnt him so strongly.

 

*

 

“I don't understand him.” Q said, putting down his glass on the bar. Moneypenny smiled sorrowfully at him, putting a hand over his. She had listened to Q for hours as he spilt his heart to her, all of his wants and fears as he slowly came towards the breakthrough that may break him. He didn't understand the man he was married to, and it frightened him that he may never do so. Their relationship could never be complete, they could never make each other whole without something as fundamental as mutual understanding. She gently squeezed his hand.

 

“He doesn't need you to understand him. He just needs to know that you're trying.”

 

*

 

Professionally, they were faultless. They were, if possible, better than they had ever been at working with each other. There was no tension, no bite in their exchanges. Orders were obeyed, equipment was returned on time. They worked together almost perfectly. People didn't even talk much any longer; they were no longer something exciting, so they stopped being the subject of gossip. They were formal, polite, and gave people no reason to talk. Those at Q Branch who were inclined to do so had even stopped taking bets on how the love-life of their Quartermaster might progress. They had previously worked so hard at giving people nothing to discuss, but now being dull came so naturally that it had started seeping into their everyday life. Bond no longer even winked at Q when he left.

 

*

 

Q banged on the door of Bond's apartment at twenty-past midnight. He knew Bond would be in, for the man had nowhere else to go if he wasn't with Q, and he knew he would be awake. Even if he wasn't, something had to be done. His knock went unanswered, so he banged even harder on the door.

 

His breath caught as he heard footsteps approaching the other side of the door and he instinctively took a step back as the door opened. He was greeted by Bond, the top buttons of his shirt undone, his tie missing, and his eyes blurred by a cheap whiskey haze.

 

“What do you want?” He asked, his voice a touch hostile. Q swallowed the words which were building in his throat, about how he shouldn't need an excuse to turn up in the middle of the night, how they should be together instead of sleeping in separate flats. He wet his lips and looked his agent square in his clouded blue eyes.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

“Bloody 'talking'...” Bond muttered, stepping aside to allow Q into his flat. Q clenched and unclenched his fist, his mind working fast as he forced himself to swallow another biting phrase. “So what is it you want to talk about?”

 

“Us.” He said, simply.

 

“Thought as much.” Bond motioned to the sofa but Q didn't sit down, instead choosing to stand in the middle of the living room, subconsciously putting the coffee table between himself and Bond.

 

“I need you to know that I am trying so hard -” Q started. He could hear the quiver in his voice. He took a deep breath, swallowed, and started again. “You are near impossible.” Bond smirked at that, dipping his head.

 

“And you're so much better.”

 

“This isn't about me.” Q snapped, before sighing at his mistake. “ _Yet._ It's not about me _yet_. I just... have to say this to you.” Bond looked up at him, raising an eyebrow to ask him to continue. “I'm trying to keep this alive. I'm trying to work with you to keep us afloat, to keep us together.”

 

“And you think I'm not?” Bond cut in. “You think this is easy? I'm sorry if you were expecting some kind of fairytale but you married the wrong man.”

 

“Then let's start again.” With a twist and a pull, Q removed his ring.

 

“What're you -” Bond started, as Q lent down and picked up his ring from the table. Q turned and opened the window. “Oh, come on, they're solid gold...”

 

“Doesn't matter.” Q shrugged. “I'm serious. Let's start again.” He threw his ring out of the open window. It caught the light from a nearby street-lamp as it skimmed the London skyline and disappeared into the night. Q held up Bond's ring in two fingers, the band of gold glittering between them as they both looked at it. Q was holding his breath as he waited for Bond to speak.

 

“Alright.” He said, after what seemed like an age. “Let's start again.” Q's face broke into a grin and he threw the second ring from the window; neither of them watched its flight-path as, in one swift movement, Bond had leapt over the coffee table and had gathered Q up in his arms. They held each other, as tightly as possible. Q was laughing for the first time since he could remember.

 

“I really threw them out of the window. They were worth so much!”

 

“You can pay me back right now.” Bond half whispered, half growled into his ear as he started placing hot, wet kisses against Q's neck. 


End file.
